


Esgalion's Mask

by Astaldowen



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dol Guldur, Dúnedain - Freeform, F/M, Forbidden Love, Major Original Character(s), Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Mirkwood, OC centric fic, Over-protective Thranduil, Rangers of the North - Freeform, Slow Burn, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 21:25:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 48,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8638660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astaldowen/pseuds/Astaldowen
Summary: When Thranduil's daughter goes missing, Esgalion immediately sets off to find his closest friend. But with him he carries a shocking secret: a secret that may keep the beloved princess in the darkness forever.





	1. Searching

** One **

_Searching_

 

            Leaves crunch under my feet as I trudge through the dark, dank halls of Mirkwood. My boots, along with any other article of clothing I possess, are worn and caked with mud, so much so that I have been mistaken for one of the Rangers of the North on more than one occasion. My dark green hood is pulled up over my head and a matching cloth works as a mask to cover my features. Some of the arrows in my quiver are broken, and my sword could use some sharpening, but for some odd reason my bow has managed to stay somewhat intact. The cold wind penetrates my clothing, chilling my fair skin. But I ignore the hardships. Because another matter preys upon my mind and forces me to carry on.

            Thranduil’s daughter is missing.

            She has been for the past month.

            And I must search for her. Alone. Because not a soul, not a being can see my face.

            I have practically torn the wood apart looking for her. My search started the moment she disappeared, because if she is in pain, I am. If she cries, I cry. Our relationship, as it has been for as long as we have lived, is more intimate that anyone ever realized. Alas, it is most likely more intimate than we even realize.

            I remember the days that she laughed, danced, sang, smiled. The memories bring joy to my heart and their hope lightens my load. But more recollections rampage my mind: those of the fateful day that changed both of us, and the rest of the kingdom, forever.

            I can hear the shrieks of the Orcs.

            I can smell the putrid reek of their freshly killed flesh.

            And I can see the body of our queen lying amongst the litter of black carcasses.

            The loss of Estelwen was indeed a grievous blow to us all, but none more so than to her daughter. For days Caladhiel despaired, cried, battled with the confusion that comes with this horrid thing called death. (As Elves, sometimes we forget that it is not only a curse for the mortal Men. The day we neglect it is the day it usually strikes…) But her strength, which she inherited from both her parents, prevailed, and for what seemed the long span of the ages, she lived on. Her smile returned. Her sweet voice floated in on the wind, rivaling the songs of the nightingales. Her nimble feet danced. Along with her happiness, her fire returned.

            But then something else came to rival her strength and seize her gladness away.

            A suitor came calling. Persistently. Though he was of noble blood (the son of one of Thranduil’s most distinguished generals), Caladhiel shunned him. He did not fit into the puzzle of her heart. However, Sereg eventually swayed an indecisive Caladhiel to his side, and for a time, it seemed as if she had truly made up her mind to wed him. The day before the wedding was the day she went missing.

            I know nothing of the reactions to her disappearance, for I left before anyone else knew, but I have my suspicions. Thranduil and Sereg are both almost certainly convinced that she has been mysteriously captured and is in some great danger. But her brother, Legolas, most likely suspects that she is making a desperate attempt to escape the marriage.

            I know for a fact that the latter is correct. No one knows Caladhiel like I do.

            But how she could have survived for this long astounds me. She has limited skills with a bow and sword, so it must take a miracle for her to defend herself. (Mirkwood is not the kindest of places. Drakes, spiders, goblins prowl the wood, searching for prey. And they would all see the princess as a choice meal.) I have more faith in her hunting ability, mainly because deer and conies do not fight back. And a month is more than enough time for improvement in these areas if one is not killed first. Nevertheless, if she is alive now, she is a walking marvel.

            I continue my search, taking great care to stay away from the search parties that roam the wood. Part of me is thankful that Legolas will not be among them, as he has apparently set out for Imladris. Even in seclusion, news like this can still reach my ears. While hiding from the others, I overhear conversations, watching intently from the shadows.

            I feel as if I am always concealing myself. My name, Esgalion, even means “son of the hidden one.” But the more I hide, the less combat I see. If my enemies cannot find me, they cannot fight me. And I am much better at hiding than at fighting. Do not be mistaken: I do have strength and fire in my heart. But lately cowardice has veiled me. And hiding is so much easier…

            I am no warrior. However, I fight when I must. And I consider this one of these times.

            The cold is inevitable. I decide to gather twigs and risk a fire, for I have seen no signs of other parties for a few days. Soon enough the orange effulgence shoots from the brush, giving me the light and warmth I crave. I retrieve the rabbit’s meat that I have in my small pack and use one of my broken arrows for a spit. Now the meat roasts over the fire. When my fingers, whose tips stick out of my worn gloves, are warmed, they close around my water skin. The mask comes off; I sip the water quickly and scarf the rabbit down.

            Because no one can see my face.

            Now I sit by the fire, planning my next move. I know that there are many search parties scattered throughout all of Mirkwood (even a few in the southern region), but I deem that there are none searching _outside_ of her leafy borders. I decide that that should be my destination. Caladhiel could be anywhere.

            I retrace my steps to gain my bearings. Yesterday I know I came across the Road that separates Northern Mirkwood from Southern Mirkwood. If I find it again, I can follow it westwards out of the woods and continue in that direction towards the Misty Mountains. Of course, I will stay out of sight range and conceal myself in the brush while using the Road as a guide. I dare not risk being seen. I will then follow the Anduin southwards. Perhaps I shall cross it and enter Lothlórien. I know not my exact route. For I know not what I will face on the journey from here to Lothlórien.

            I gaze up at the forest roof. Thought it blocks my eyes from the sun and sky, I can tell by the few holes in its canopy that the afternoon grows old. And with the afternoon comes night. At night, anywhere one can travel in Middle Earth suddenly transforms into an even more eerie and dangerous place. With the cover of blackness, orcs, wargs, goblins roam more freely, for their worst enemy, the Sun, has retired. In Mirkwood, the dangers are multiplied. Though we face few orcs and next to no wargs, drakes slink in the shadows. Spiders the size of wolves tiptoe in the night, searching for prey. Goblins prowl, their shrieks and growls resonating through nature’s halls; the trees seem to shudder at their presence. There are even accounts of dragons lurking through the wood. Snakes. Wolves. And most gravely: the mysterious threats from Dol Guldur to the south. I dare not venture there. I hope to the Valar that Caladhiel has not either.

            I wonder at how she even makes it through the night. Perhaps she sleeps in the tops of the trees as I do, if she can even sleep at all. Most threats are bereft of that gift. There is only one disadvantage of height: one eventually must come down. And if one is surrounded, that can be rather challenging. But the benefits highly outweigh the cons.

            Suddenly feeling the urge to get back on the move, I stamp out the fire and scatter the ashes. A stream slinks by me, the water murmuring to me. I am unfamiliar with it; I do not trust it. Suddenly I am thankful that my water skin is full.

            My eyes and ears search for any living sign of Caladhiel. Always I am met by disappointment. I must have misjudged just how well she knows the woods, for she has proved to be an excellent runner. The hunting trips she took with her father and brother must have been more than I though they were. Either that or the princess carries a map in her head. One of her favorite pastimes was to stroll through the wood with her father or to explore on her own, so she is most likely is more familiar with the roads, streams, and deer paths than I realize.

           Suddenly a rustling in the leaves snatches me from my thoughts. Instinctively I look for thick bushes to crouch in or a tree with low limbs that will be easy to climb. To my sharp chagrin, I find none that give the cover I desire. Slowly, I pull an arrow from my quiver and fit it to my bow. When the crunch of footsteps resumes, the bow shoots upwards, the string taut. Fear courses through me; I fight to keep it from registering in my eyes. Somehow, I know I am failing. For this time, I cannot hide.


	2. Rangers

**_ Two _ **

_Rangers_

 

            Once again the brush rustles. My shaking hands can hardly hold the arrow to the bow. I feel the enemy’s presence; tension rises when whatever it is decides to pounce. As the creature hurls itself at me, I fire. By some miracle I manage to hit it. It howls when the arrow pierces its thick skin. Now that it has slowed down, I get a better look as it snarls, hisses, sneers at me, its black lips curling back to show an unforgiving set of teeth.

            Drake.

            Its heavy golden wings flatten against its scaly back. Dark blood oozes from the wound in the monster’s right shoulder. Terrible yellow eyes glare at me, taunting me, curtly informing me that not only have I not killed it, I have made it very angry. Snarling, it crouches. I can see the power loading up in its strong legs; its claws carve ruts in the tender earth.

            Rapidly I load my bow. No sooner have I raised it does the drake fly at me, claws extended, teeth bared, wings beating furious winds. My arrow flies. The creature jerks back, crying out in pain. The feather sticks out of the monster’s left leg. This time, however, the drake remains aloft, its own weapons poised for use. Claws fly at my face; somehow I duck and the huge mass of scale and muscle barrels over my head. I leap to my feet and draw another arrow, letting it fly as soon as it is loaded. Thanks to my haste, I miss. Again an infuriated drake swoops down at me. I leap out of the way, making a hard landing on top of a protruding root and knocking the wind out of myself.

            I manage to stagger to my feet a few seconds too late. The drake is rushing violently at me; by the time I’ve regained enough of myself to dodge the blow, its claws are already tearing the flesh on my arm. A rip is made in the deep green cloth, immediately filling with blood. My sleeve is stained a rusty brown. I fail to stifle my outcry.

            At this point the drake very well could be laughing at me as it hovers above my head, its horrible expression jeering as it lands. Weakened by our wounds, we stare at each other. Fear, which has somewhat been pushed down by the adrenaline rush, slithers back into my heart. I know by the look in its eye that this time, the drake will go for the kill. But I cannot allow myself to be its prey.

            Still stunned from the blow, I fumble in my quiver for an arrow. As I fit it to the notch, the drake slinks forward slowly, hissing my demise. More blood is squeezed out of my arm as I pull the bowstring taut. It screams under the exertion, but my determination to live quiets its cries. A fire rises in my heart, waging its own battle to burn off my dread. I can feel my brow knitting with the tempest of my emotions, and my teeth begin to bare. My focus is zeroed in on the monster’s throat. To my horror, the drake seems to mirror my actions.

            The drake squats.

            I raise my weapon.

            The winged menace launches fury into the air.

            My arrow flies.

            And, only by some gracious work of Elbereth herself, it sinks into the monster’s throat.

            A final cry of pain escapes the drake as it plummets. It moans when it crashes to the ground with a _thud._

            Thanking the Valar for my life, I draw my sword, for the monster is still alive. Sweat pours down my face and into my eyes as I hack off the drake’s head, putting it out of its misery. Panting, I take a few steps away and collapse onto soft ground. I try to catch my breath as I wipe the blade on the green moss that surrounds me. When the metal’s dull luster returns, I sheathe the weapon. Now my hands fumble for my water skin. The cool, soothing liquid glides down my throat. I still have sense enough to abstain from chugging the entire thing down. I know not when I will come across a reliable water source be able to fill it again, so I must ration it.

            Somewhat revived, I stand and make my way to the carcass. Slowly, carefully, I work my arrows from its flesh, as my need to conserve them is great. Gingerly I wipe the blood from them and return them to my quiver. I then cast about for the last arrow, the one that only hit air. I find it when I nearly step on it. Perfectly, miraculously intact, it joins the others in the safety of my quiver. Gladly I turn and leave the crumpled, battered corpse behind.

            The sun sets, painting a wonderful array of colors in the sky before she finally bids the rest of the world goodnight. Now the stars peek out and dot night’s black canopy with light. I put at least two miles between me and the corpse before lethargy takes hold of me. It does not take long for me to find a good, sturdy tree to sleep in. As nimbly as I can manage I climb the sturdy oak, settling in on a wide, strong branch. As soon as I am comfortable, I take a look at the wound on my arm. Though it still throbs, it is not as severe as I had initially thought, and the bleeding seems to have alleviated. I find myself wishing for something to bind it with as I drift off.

            _Crackle, crrrack, cr-crackle._ The sound awakes me, accompanied with the distinct smell of smoke. My eyes pop open; immediately I begin to search for the source of the disturbances. I see the small campfire about six feet from my tree. Around it sit two hunched figures clad in earthy, olive greens and muddy browns, their clothing every bit as worn as mine, if not worse. The older one tends to the fire; the younger smokes a crude pipe and reads a small book with his back propped against my tree.

            Rangers.

            A spit with meat sits over the fire; the tantalizing odor of food causes my mouth to water. As I sit up, my hands instinctively close around my weapons. My heart rate and breathing increase with my growing fear. Instinct is the root of my immediate distrust.

            As soon as I move, a small branch snaps, landing right beside the dozing young Ranger. He immediately jumps, nearly dropping his pipe on the book.

            Across the fire, the second’s head shoots up. “What is it, Aradan?”

            “Something is in the trees,” Aradan replies, frantically scanning the canopy.

            I freeze, hardly daring to breathe.

            After taking a quick look himself, his companion cocks an eyebrow. “I see nothing,” he gruffs.

            “A twig just landed right beside me!” Aradan says, a hint of desperation in his voice.

            “A squirrel, most likely,” the other Ranger muses.

            “Maybe,” Aradan agrees, beginning to settle down.

            Slowly, carefully, I shift to get a better view. The adjustment proves to be a mistake.

            Once again Aradan suspiciously whips around, his grey eyes searching the tree tops.

            His companion sighs. “What is it _now_ , Aradan?”

            “Something is moving,” Aradan hisses.

            The other Ranger rolls his eyes. “Aradan-”

            “I swear to you, Orodben, there is something up there! Something rather large!” He fumbles for his decrepit bow. “And given our location, dangerous!”

            Orodben heaves a noisy sigh.

            I know Aradan is becoming anxious. “You saw the drake carcass back in the clearing! It is a warning sign!”

            “Sweet Elbereth, Aradan! Peace!” Orodben snaps.

            As the two continue to argue, I slowly load my own bow. It is best, I deem, to be prepared since my friends seem to see me as a threat. I rest the weapon against my thigh, ready to snatch it up when the time comes. And come it does.

            Aradan is now on his feet.

            “There is something above us! In that tree! I just saw it move!”

            Sighing, Orodben heaves his burly form up. “All right, where is it?” he inquires skeptically.

            Aradan merely points in my direction in response.

            I raise my bow and pull the string taut. I will not fire unless fired upon first.

            I know Orodben has seen me, for he is now snatching his bow from the forest floor and fitting an arrow to it. As his bow flies up, Aradan’s hand slips to his sword hilt.

            I perch in the tree, holding my breath. My arm is screaming.

            To my shock, Orodben’s arrow whizzes towards me. The breeze from it spits in my ear.

            _“Raich!”_ I loudly blurt.

            Orodben loads another arrow, but Aradan pushes his bow down. “Wait!” he demands, taking a few steps towards my tree. He looks up and his eyes lock with mine. When he sees my loaded bow, he jumps back.

            “Peace, friend! Do not shoot!”

            Warily I lower my bow, eyeing him suspiciously.

            Aradan smiles a lopsided, genuine smile. _“Mae govannen, mellon n_ _í_ _n!”_ he calls to me warmly.

            I am immediately taken by surprise. The Ranger knows Sindarin! _“Suilaid,”_ I reply, my voice barely audible.

            “You may come down,” he says amiably. “I promise, my comrade and I will not hurt you. We are friends of your kin.”

            Hesitantly I return the arrow to my quiver. But this is as far as I can make myself go. I stare back at the young Ranger.

            Aradan turns to Orodben. “Put the weapons away. This is one of Thranduil’s folk.”

            With the realization, Orodben hastily shoves his arrow back in his quiver and throws his bow down. “My apologies for firing upon you,” he grumbles. “Please, come down.”

            The sincerity in both their voices consoles me enough to unfreeze me. Never letting my guard down, I cautiously descend the branches. Leaves crunch under my feet when they land on the forest floor.

            Once again Aradan smiles. Its warmth begins to penetrate my distrust. For now.

            “Please, sit down,” he says.

            Tentatively I obey. It is hard refuse the warmth of a fire on a morning as chilling as this one has proved. When I lay eyes upon the spit, which appears to have venison on it, my stomach growls.

            Aradan sits beside me. He moves slowly; I know he has picked up on my suspicion. He even removes his sword belt and casts it aside. “I am Aradan. My friend over there is Orodben. What is your name?”

            “Esgalion,” I mutter.

            Aradan appears to be about to say something, when a look of concern crosses his features. His eyes travel to the cuts on my arm. “You’re hurt,” he says softy, making a small move towards me.

            Instinctively I jerk back.

            “Peace,” he soothes. “I mean you no harm.”

            With that, he slowly takes my arm in his hands. His touch is surprisingly gentle.

            “Orodben,” he says, “Get me my pack.”

            Orodben grabs a small leather satchel and sets it beside Aradan, who reaches in and retrieves a small bundle. A sweet fragrance fills my nostrils when he unties it. Inside are healing herbs. I immediately know the plant; I have seen it much in Thranduil’s halls. Athelas.

            Aradan takes a pinch of the athelas and further examines the lacerations. “These look like claw marks,” he observes. Another smile spreads across his face. “You must be the slayer of the drake we saw a few miles back.”

            I nod.

            “It must have put up some fight,” Orodben adds.

            Once again I nod, but this time more fiercely.

            Orodben and Aradan both chuckle.

            Gently Aradan lays the herbs inside the wounds. I wince, but as soon as the pain arrives, it is soaked away. A soothing sensation rushes through my arm, and I can feel the strength returning. The stiffness fades as Aradan wraps it with a bandage from his pack.

            I wonder if the young Ranger can see my soft smile through the mask. _“Le hannon,”_ I say softly.

            He only smiles in response.


	3. Company

** Three **

_Company_

 

            The more time I spend in the company of Orodben and Aradan, the more I see just how unprepared I really am for a trek into the wilderness. Inside their packs, which are much larger and stronger than my flimsy little sack, there are a great number of apparent necessities that I, in my mad dash to escape Thranduil’s halls, had forgotten in my scrambled state of mind: a coil of rope, blankets (an item of which I pine after whenever the sun goes down), foodstuffs, even the very healing herbs and bandages used to tend to my arm.  

            As I think back to my wild hurry, I realize just how lucky I am that I remembered flint and steel, or even sound weapons for that matter.

            Even now I do not fully trust the Rangers, and it has taken me what seems an age to warm up to Orodben. I only ever eat or drink when not in their presence, or under the cover of darkness when they are deep in sleep’s clutches, for I cannot risk them seeing my face. I only ever speak when spoken to, and the words are concise and quiet. However, Aradan’s reassuring smile can sometimes pry a bit more out of me, especially if Orodben lies snoring on the forest floor. Tonight, Orodben does just that.

            Aradan’s back is propped against the trunk of a sturdy tree. Contentedly he smokes his pipe, softly crooning to himself. I sit across from him, warming my hands before its flames and occasionally adding more timber to it. This night is a cold one, frigid for late October. Hunger begins to gnaw at my stomach, but I must wait until Aradan falls asleep, or find some excuse to get up and away from him. Taking note of the alertness of his countenance, I deem that the latter will come first, so I search for a justification for my leaving.

            The fire begins to die down. I turn to my left, where my pile of timber sits. I throw the last of it, which is not much at all, into the flames and stand up.

            Aradan takes his pipe from his mouth. “Where are you going?” he inquires.

            “To fetch more timber,” I reply. With that, I grab my satchel and disappear into the shadows.

            Serene darkness envelops me as I slip the mask off of my face. The chill of night immediately bites at the exposed skin, but my hunger, as always, dulls the cold immediately. As quickly as I can I shove venison in my mouth and gulp down as much water as I can handle. A rustle in the leaves startles me, and I almost drop my water skin in my clumsy hurry to pull the mask back up.

            My timing is impeccable, because just then Orodben comes through the trees.

            “Where are you going?” he inquires.

            I give him a puzzled look. “To get more firewood. Did I not already tell you so?”

            “Then why do you have your pack?”

            I rack my brains for an answer, but silence in the only explanation that I can give him.

            A skeptical look washes over Orodben’s face. “Do you not know that it is dangerous to travel alone in these woods at night?”

            A slight bit of anger mixes in with my perplexity. “I am not leaving you, if that is what you are concerned about.”

            “That’s not what worries me.”

            “Then what is it?”

            Orodben’s voice drops when he finally speaks. “At least three times a day, around the same time of day, you disappear. You always look about you as if some wretched creature could jump out and slit your throat at any moment. When I am awake, you barely speak a word, but I know that you are much friendlier with Aradan.”

            As he speaks, I begin to pick up twigs, sticks, foliage for the fire. I am desperately trying to shut him out.

            “And you are ignoring me now.”

            Still I keep to my work.

            “What is it that troubles you so, Esgalion? Why are you so uneasy?”

            I sigh. “Perhaps I have good reason to be uneasy, especially in these dark times. And in this place.” I fight to keep my words from being too curt.

            The look on Orodben’s face tells me that my response is not good enough.

            I suddenly realize that I have never forgiven him for firing that arrow on the day of our meeting. A pang of guilt hits me.

            But just as I am about to speak, the haunting howl of a wolf pierces the night. A chill shoots up my spine as more rise up in answer. I instinctively freeze.

            Orodben’s eyes grow wide. “Well, Esgalion, I’d say your point has been proven for you this night.”

            Now the cries of the pack ricochet off of every plant and rock in the forest.

            I begin to glance around, half expecting to find a pair of glowing yellow eyes penetrating the darkness. Immediately I move back in the direction of our little encampment, with Orodben on my heels.

            When we arrive back, Aradan has replaced his pipe with a bow. His alertness and apprehension multiply by the second. For a moment, we can merely exchange worried glances.

            At last he speaks. “They are close.”

            As if on cue, another howl gurgles up in response.

            Orodben sighs. “Put out the fire.”

            Immediately I begin the stamp on the flames as Orodben snatches up his bow. While Aradan scatters the ashes, I gather my belongings and shoot up the nearest tree. Soon enough, Orodben and Aradan are mimicking my actions. All of our bows are loaded. Mine rests on my knee, ready to be snatched up when the time comes.

            Seconds pass like slugs in mud. Bone-chilling howls and barks continue to rise up out of the wood. We stay perched in our tree, barely daring to breathe. As the night drones on, fear sinks its poison even deeper into my pounding heart. But though fright courses through my veins, sleep does not elude Orodben. Aradan, for his part, jus gives me a reassuring nod, even though fear courses through his bright grey eyes in spite of attempts to hide it. I can only sit in the tree, praying to the Valar to keep Orodben from snoring.

            Just barely after another wolf’s bay, a lightning bolt streaks across the sky. Thunder rumbles, and rain begins to fall, seeping through my clothing and kissing my skin. It flows downhill in little torrents, taking our scent with it.

            _Thank the Valar…_

Aradan grins wide.

            As I begin to relax, my thoughts wander to Caladhiel. I ask myself if I should speak to the Rangers about her as I doze off…

            The odors of smoke and roasting meet draw me from my dreams. I shake myself to alertness. Orodben and Aradan have left the tree, and are sitting around a small campfire in their usual fashion. Scattered all around them are what seems like thousands upon thousands of wolf tracks.

            I descend the branches and plop down by the flames beside Aradan. Realizing that my bow is still loaded, I shove the arrow back in my quiver.  

            “We were lucky,” he says. “Had the storm not come, we must assuredly would have been found.”

            “I awoke once during the night,” Orodben adds, “and the wolf pack was wandering by right underneath our tree, snarling and growling. It was a close call.”

            “Indeed,” Aradan agrees.

            “You saw them too, did you not?” Orodben asks, turning to me. “You were awake when I was.”

            I shake my head. “I was not.”

            Confusion writes its mark on Orodben’s face. “Your eyes were wide open.”

            In spite of myself, I chuckle. “I was asleep, Orodben, but my people do not sleep in the sense that men do. We rest out minds, and yes, during that time, our eyes are open.”

            Amused perplexity is all I receive as a response.

            Aradan smiles. “It confused me at first as well, my friend,” he says. “During my time among Thranduil’s folk, I learned much about them. And I must say, some of their ways can seem rather strange at first. But, it is a mystical sort of strange. Fascinating may yet be a better word to describe it.”

            Orodben leans forward and takes the meat off the fire. After taking some for himself, he hands the spit to Aradan, who gives the rest to me. As they eat, I can only awkwardly stare at the food, trying to find yet another reason to excuse myself.

            I survey my surroundings. Wolf tracks are the only things that meet my gaze. Slowly I begin to formulate an excuse to leave.

            “What is it, Esgalion?” Aradan inquires.

            “Exactly how many wolves were there?” I ask Orodben.

            Orodben shrugs. “I know not, but it was a rather large pack.”

            A slow moment slinks by before I speak again. “Their tracks may lead to water,” I say, hesitantly standing up. “I am going to have a look around. My water skin is running low.” With that, I turn and leave, feeling the heat of Orodben’s uneasy gaze on my retreating form.

            As I walk away, I hear him mutter, “Do you find it strange that he always leaves at mealtimes?”

            A brief silence precedes Aradan’s reply. “It is a bit peculiar.”

            “Suspicious?”

            “I think not.” Aradan’s words are calm and cool. “You must remember, Orodben, it has taken him much to trust us. We did not exactly give the best first impression, that, and the Elves are a rather elusive folk.”

            “This is true,” Orodben agrees. “Esgalion is one of the few I have ever seen. And you know much more of their ways than I do, given the fact that it was you that lived among them for a time.”

            “I also traveled with them for about a fortnight, before I was reunited with you.”

            “Were they hunting?”

            Aradan sighs. “In a sense.”

            “What mean you?”

            Once more Aradan sighs. “It was a search party. For Thranduil’s daughter.”

            My heart stops.

            Aradan continues. “She went missing while I stayed in the Woodland Realm.” His voice takes on a saddened tone. “It is a pity that harm would come to her. She is very beautiful, fair of face and sweet and strong of spirit.” He chuckled. “And not bad with a bow and arrow either.” He sighed. “I hope beyond all hope that she is alive."

            This is all I can make myself listen to. One thought continually runs through my mind as I devour my breakfast and make my way back to camp: _They know of Caladhiel? Why in Elbereth’s name did they not tell me?_


	4. Pining

** Four **

_Pining_

 

            Searching. That is all we ever seem to do now. The days go by with a blatant routine. We have breakfast, during which I conjure up some excuse to leave, and then we are off. Rarely do we ever stop for a midday meal (something of which I was forced to quickly adapt to). Throughout the day and well into the night, we keep our eyes peeled for any signs of Caladhiel. And every day it is the same. No trace. Not even a scratch.

            Aradan and Orodben begin to wonder if she vaporized into thin air. But I know for a fact that she is out here. Somewhere. And most likely, she is hiding.

            There are times when I regret the night when I finally told them of my true mission, for with Aradan at the head of our little troop, we almost never rest. She constantly rests on his mind, and now that he knows of my friendship with her, he always asks questions as we sit around the fire at night. I, however, am not usually inclined to speak of her. Oftentimes, he stares off wistfully into some imaginary distance, evidently thinking of her.

            And I know he fancies her.

            If it were at all possible, they would make a good match. Aradan is a strong and steady character with a heart of gold, and to those he loves, he is remarkably loyal (not unlike the princess). But he also knows how to respect a person’s space without being too distant, a quality of which Caladhiel always pined for, and undoubtedly still does. If it were to ever happen, once he earned her trust, the relationship would soar. But alas, though he is one of the Dúnedain, he is still a mortal man. Thus he could never wed her, not without a stinging sacrifice from the princess and her house. And as much as Aradan respects her father, he would never want to put them through anything that drastic. However, his heart undoubtedly pines for her.

            As we trudge through the wood, his face holds the same look of longing. When I catch his eye, sharp pangs of grief and even guilt hit me, for reasons that I cannot say. For reasons that I _will not_ say.    

            Soon enough sweet night is finally upon us. A contented sigh escapes me as I plop down on the soft ground, my aching feet practically screaming relief. Orodben mirrors my actions almost exactly, thrusting his pack off of his shoulder and quickly converting it to a makeshift pillow. Aradan gets a fire going and is soon distributing our nightly rations. After shoving his in his mouth and gulping it down, Orodben flops down and rolls over, grumbling something of which the only thing I can catch is my name. In a few minutes, he is snoring.

            Too tired to even bother to think about getting up, I elect to wait until Aradan too is asleep before I eat my own ration. The young Ranger sits as usual, with his back propped against a tree and his pipe in his mouth. He softly croons to himself, and when I finally recognize the tune and the lyrics I come to the complete decision that Aradan may have officially lost his mind.

            The song of Beren and Luthien.

            Of which I think he has renamed “the song of Aradan and Caladhiel” in his own mind.

            Slightly annoyed, I lie back, yank my cloak around me, and let out an exasperated sigh. Perhaps if I pretend to sleep, he will stop with this nonsense. I curl up in a little ball and let my mind drift off just enough to make myself look asleep. For a while I lie there, perfectly still, hoping that eventually, he will stop.

            The only thing that has evaded my mind is that Aradan always takes the first watch. I shall be listening to this for a good while…

            All goes quiet and my mind fully drifts off.

            For a while, I lie there dreaming of home. I can smell the venison. Taste the wine. Hear the soft, graceful pluck of the harps. See the king plopped on his throne with his legs propped on one side. Feel the warmth of a huge fire. Happiness. Safety. My mind drifts back to the good times, times of laughter. Before the curse. The Dwarves. The Dragon. And the battle that I was never meant to partake in that changed my life forever. Our greed had gotten the best of us that day, especially my own…

            Just as the Warg pounces I wake with a start, and he melts away.

            Aradan is bending over me. His hand still perches on my shoulder.

            “Are you all right?”

            “It was only a dream.” Automatically I know my reply is excessively curt. Regret slowly wrenches an apology out of me.

            Silence comes over both of us as I sit up and stretch. The wind whistles. An owl hoots mournfully. Then all is eerily still.

            Aradan sighs. “It is your watch.”

            I nod.

            Quiet.

            The young Ranger’s grey eyes do not leave my face. Finally he breaks the silence. And the randomness of his words completely catches me off guard.

            “I was in these very parts of the wood, and I was attacked by a party of goblins. By some miracle, I managed to escape, but I was gravely wounded. I dragged myself as far away from the area as I could, knowing full well that they would most likely soon return. Little did I know that I was stumbling straight towards the Elvenking’s palace. I did not make it to the gates. In fact, I did not see a single Elf.

            “The trek took two days. I was exhausted. Finally, my wounds got the best of me, and I collapsed. I know not how long I lay there, but I know that I lost consciousness. I managed to regain it just as voices came into earshot. One of them was the princess’s; the other, as I would learn later, belonged to her brother. The next I knew, she was kneeling beside me, hesitantly taking a pulse, trying to get words out of me, which would not come. Her brother joined her. I knew not if I was saved at the time; they both seemed wary (as the Mirkwood Elves always seem to be around strangers) -”

            I cock an eyebrow, though I know this to be true.

            “-and one was armed with a bow. Finally, after some debate, and despite the consensus that Thranduil would most likely be just as uncomfortable as they were, they took me in. Once again I lost consciousness. I awoke within the palace walls, tended to and safe.

            “Eventually I would meet her formally, and thank her for saving my life. Still a bit wary, she spoke little, but her eyes shone with a quiet curiosity. Her father,” he said with a slightly nervous chuckle, “was much more straightforward. They both, however, eventually warmed up to me, and I stayed with the Elves for more than a few fortnights. Which gives me all the more reason to grieve the loss of her.”

            “She is not dead. And she did not save your life. Thranduil did.” My utterance is blunt and cold.

            For some reason this abrupt story has made me wildly grumpy. That and my stomach is screaming for food. These things do not justify my words, though. I search for something kinder.

            “But do not lose hope. As far as we know, she could be right under our very noses.” My voice trails off on the last word of the stuttered sentence. Finally I force out more. “Get some sleep.”

            He rolls over and in seconds is sleeping soundly.

            As soon as I know he will not rise until awoken, I yank my mask off and stuff as much food as I can handle at once in my mouth. Just as I am guzzling down my water does a sound come to my attention. Soft. Grungy. Terrifying.

            Once again it hisses in my ear. Slowly, I pull the mask up, grab my bow and quiver, and stand, waiting for the growl’s reemergence. When it sounds again, I tip toe off in its direction to investigate.

            This proves to be a fatal mistake.

            Piercing my ears are the grotesquely high-pitched shrieks of goblins.

            Now the cries of the Rangers are mingling with them. Swords ring in the air. Orodben’s bow hisses. By the sounds of it, my friends seem to holding their own. But are heavily outnumbered.

            “Esgalion!” Aradan’s desperate voice screams. “Esgalion!”

            Overcome with sheer terror, I cannot bring my legs to move.

            “Esgalion!”

            I begin to tremble.

            “Esgalion!”

            Everything goes eerily silent.

            My heart stops.

            Finally I break the shackles of my fear. Adrenaline courses through me as I charge through the wood, my arrow drawn taut. I crash through the brush…only to find that I am too late.

            The bodies of the goblins and broken arrow shafts litter the ground. The grass is drowning in their black blood. Orodben is nowhere to be seen. Not even a scrap of clothing attests to his existence, only a gruesome pool of bright red blood. Aradan, however, lies with his back propped against his tree, a few arrows wedged into his battered body, his sword dead in his limp hand. By some miracle he is still alive.

            “Esgalion…”

            Stunned and stricken to the core, I stumble over to his side. Slowly, almost hesitantly, I kneel beside him.

            “Where is Orodben?”

            Aradan only shakes his head.

            “They took him…didn’t they?”

            I am barely able to perceive his nod. His eyes do not leave my face. Pain is a mask that covers his features. The agony in his countenance causes my heart to shatter.

            “I am so sorry…”

            Despite the fact that he is dying, Aradan’s grip on my shoulder is surprisingly strong.

            “There was nothing you could have done,” he whispers. “There were so many of them. They would have taken you, too.”

            “I would have died beside you!”

            _No you wouldn’t have,_ my conscience hisses. _You would have run away. You would have been hiding…like you are now._

And all this time, I had convinced myself that I did not trust him. That my shunning of his friendship was justified. Even that I hated him. And worst of all…that there was nothing wrong with it. Now, as I sit here, helpless, watching him die, I realize that he was one of the best friends that I could have ever asked for. That he returned my glowers with a smile. And all I have ever done is hide anything and everything from him. Regret begins to tear me apart like a wild animal. For the first time in ages, tears fill my eyes.

            “I am so sorry,” I whisper. “For everything!”

            “There is nothing to forgive,” he replies.

            Anger mingles with my grief. My voice raises up to a pained, almost hoarse, cry. “I have been nothing but cruel! Heartless! And now you have paid the ultimate price! I did not deserve your kindness then! And I do not deserve your forgiveness now!”

            Though he cannot see my tears, I know he knows they are there.

            “I offer it to you anyway,” he says. “I beg you to take it.”

            Hesitantly I nod. _What kind of a man is this?_

“You will find Caladhiel?”

            At the question, a huge, poisoned dagger wrenches its icy teeth into my heart. More hot tears spill down my cheeks. I can only nod. As I do so, his hand leaves my shoulder and travels up to the mask. So torn up am I that, for the first time, I do not shy away.

            When he pushes my hood back, shock flies into his eyes, which quickly fill to the brim with tears. Raising a finger to my cheek, he whispers something that I cannot catch, then slips away.

            By now, I am shamelessly and quite loudly sobbing.

            For after all he had given me…all I gave in return was heartbreak.


	5. Fight

** Five **

_Fight_

After what seems like ages, I finally begin to regain control of myself. My sobs finally subside, but my head aches with a dull, stormy pain. My eyes sting as if salt water has been poured into them. My heart screams in anguish.

            Confusion whirls around me like a tempest. Immediately I curse my immortality, my inability to understand death. Perhaps if I did, it would not be so painful…

            Anger courses through my veins, hotter than my blood could ever be. A voice inside eats away at my soul, chewing on the cords of my nerve and my sanity like a rat in the gatehouse. And I know that if the rope breaks, the gate will come crashing down, and I may never escape from the weight of my actions. My cowardice. Selfishness. Lies.

            _Lies._

            The word echoes through my mind as I rip the mask off my face. With fiery anger and an icy heart, I stare at it. I can feel stonewalls of bitterness building a fatal fortress around my being. Tears stream down my face, for I know that there is only one way to knock the walls down.

            Gritting my teeth and letting out a hoarse and chilling scream, I crumple the mask in my hand and throw it as far away as I can.

            I then turn to Aradan. Gently I plant a soft kiss on his forehead. More sobs come on, and I haphazardly let them out. Finally I sit up and look around.

            “And I cannot even find a proper place to bury you!” I whisper. “Sweet Elbereth, what more disgrace can I subject you to?”

            So torn up am I that not one single pang of guilt hits my heart at the misuse of the Vala’s name.

            _And after all he gave you! You cannot even pay rightful respects! He has saved your life time and time again, and what do you give him in return? What can you give? Nothing! Absolutely nothing!_

            The accusations of my conscious ring so loudly in my ears that I almost miss the blood curdling, bone chilling, unmistakable shriek.

            My eyes widen in terror.

            Both Aradan and Orodben have passed. And fate has dictated that I am to join them.

            The hisses and snarls slink all the closer in the darkness.

            Slowly, shakily, I heave myself up. My hand wraps around my sword hilt.

            “If I am to die,” I growl as my anger morphs into a fierce, ferocious power, “then I will give those monsters a fight that they will not soon forget!”

            My sword whispers just as the first pair of yellow goblin eyes pierces the darkness. His own blade hisses as it is harshly whipped from its sheath.

            With a loud, fell battle cry I charge forward, ramming my blade through my victim’s gut before he even has a chance to lift his blade. Just as he falls, his black lips curl back into a vicious, yellow smirk.

            I stumble a few steps back, momentarily surprised at my own ferocity. I rip my sword from his flesh just in time to block a blow from another goblin. Our swords ring as they clash, and I soon find myself fighting for my life against a very skilled opponent.

            More goblins materialize from the thickness of the forest, surrounding me and my huge adversary in an impenetrable ring of black. Shrieks, growls, grunts, hisses fling themselves at me from all sides. The terrible guttural words of the Black Speech egg my enemy on. My own strength begins to fade.

            Finally he succeeds at pinning me to the ground. My lungs are crushed under the bulk of his weight. His foul breath sends what little food my stomach held shooting back up. I just barely manage to keep it down. He stares down at me with a horrible gaze. My eyes fell, I return it, spewing a Sindarin curse at him. In response, I only get a cruel, cold laugh.

            From his belt he produces a savage blade with a merciless curve.

            I bite my lip. I will _not_ , under any circumstances, give them the entertainment of a death dishonorably died.

            A huge hand smashes the side of my face into the mud. Just as the blade bites into my skin, a harsh, gruff order erupts from the pack.

            With a ruthless grunt, the goblin slowly removes his hand from my face, digging his claws into my cheek as he does so.

            Out comes another order.

            Before I can even blink, he rapidly rams the hilt of the weapon into the side of my head, and I know no more.

 

When I finally come to, I find myself dangling from a pole with my wrists and ankles tied together, a young deer being brought in from the hunt. I glance up ahead, and anger shoots through me when my eyes catch sight of Aradan in the same position. Limp as a bonefish, I can only pray as the rhythm of the goblins’ steps rock my body and pop my joints.

            Suddenly they stop. Black speech echoes eerily though the air.

            Then they start again.

            My blood freezes in my veins as my shrieking, grotesque captors haul me closer and closer to the mouth of an abysmal cave.


	6. Captive

** Six **

_Captive_

 

            Though I know it to be completely futile, I begin to struggle. All I receive in return, however, are sharps blows with whatever weapon, wherever the assailant can hit. My head reels. My lungs cry for air. My soul begs for mercy.

            I stop the resistance just long enough to see Aradan vanish into darkness. Grief strikes me harder than the fists of the goblins ever could. Fury pulses through me, somewhat dulling the pain. I begin to fight again, so much so that the goblin guards thrust me to the ground and beat me, hitting me again and again until my vision goes crooked and silence is the only cry I can make.

            Roughly they hoist me back onto their shoulders.

            One step. Two steps. Three steps. Four.

            Chilling stories of goblin caves that an old friend once told me resurface after nearly sixty years of lying dormant. Tales of grotesque monsters, immeasurable darkness, savage torture devices. My blood runs cold as his recollections resurface, and the more I ponder it, the more I know for a fact that the situation is hopeless.

            Or is it?

            For the more I run the stories through my mind, the more prominent two facts become.

            Goblins are not the brightest of creatures.

            And he had escaped. Narrowly.

            But my old friend was not tied to a pole like game either. Suddenly I realize that that is exactly what I am in the eyes of my captors.

            Now the stagnant odor of cavern air drifts out of the mouth of the cave and right into my nostrils. My eyes begin to make out the shapes of stalactites and stalagmites, coming down from the roof and up from the floor like the jagged teeth of some unnamed wild animal.

            Just as darkness reaches out to consume me, something like a bird whistles through the air.

            Suddenly the goblin holding my head collapses with an all-too-familiar white arrow feather protruding from his hideous, wart-covered hide. Stunned, the other drops my feet.

            Shrieks pour out from the throats of the goblins. Arrows sing a battle song as the ambush continues. Relief pours through my body and my soul when a party of Elves crashes through the trees with Sereg in the lead.

            A band of four of them immediately rush to my side. Two work to free me of my bonds; the others fight off any goblins that dare to get close enough to recover their prey. Murmuring words that my spinning head cannot perceive, they haul me to my feet. As soon as I attempt to walk, I collapse. One of my rescuers sweeps me off my feet and flies away from the fray, a small group following closely behind him. I look over his shoulder just in time to see the last of the goblins fall to Sereg’s thirsty blade and the arrows of his soldiers.

            The steady thump of hunters’ march almost lulls me to sleep as I lie there; the only thing that robs me of peace is the memory of Aradan. Now more than ever I fight to keep tears back as we plod along. Finally, the pace slows and eventually stops.

            Gently the Elf lays me down on a patch of moss. Pain pulses through my entire body. Completely helpless, I can only hope that they do not recognize me.

            “Get a fire going.” Sereg’s deep, smooth voice carries the words. “Elhadron, do what you can to tend to the _ellon_.” His eyes lock on my face as he speaks. “I know not who he is, but he is obviously one of us.”

            Elhadron, a smaller elf with an amiable face and a gentle demeanor, steps forward and kneels beside me. Compassion floods into his face and his movement slows. He has obviously picked up on the fear that I fight so desperately to hide.

            “You have no reason to fear,” he soothes, laying a gentle hand on my shoulder.

            In response, my muscles begin to unlock.

            “I am here to look after you. The goblins can no longer hurt you. What is your name?”

            “Esgalion,” I mutter, my voice barely audible.

            “The Valar are certainly watching over you, Esgalion,” Elhadron softly says with a smile.

            Suddenly the fire crackles to life, its warmth radiating to my bones and even beginning to melt the ice around my heart. Sighing, I close my eyes, relaxing into the moss as if it were my own mattress back home.

            Home. The more I think of it, the more I realize that I never should have left. My heart yearns for my father’s strong embrace, my brother’s clear, ringing laughter, my best friend’s playful and almost mischievous eyes, even my horse’s soft yet obstinate nuzzle. What I would give to see them all again…

            The sound of Sereg’s voice snaps me from my reverie. An untold anger rushes through my veins; determination flows back into my spirit. I cannot forsake my mission, I tell myself. I cannot falter. I cannot abandon the princess…or myself. The new found courage starts to dull the pain of my wounds and injuries, quiet the rumbling of my stomach, beat down the whining of my body for sleep. My eyes shoot open.

            Elhadron is still bending over me, this time with bandages, healing herbs, and a pot of steaming water at his side. He takes a pinch of the leaves in his fingers, breaks them, and sprinkles them into the pot. A sweet fragrance fills the air, sweeter than the athelas, calming my tension and even relieving some of the ache. He then picks up a small cloth and dips it into the pot. When he wrings it out, the water sings a soothing song as it whispers back into the mixture. I wince at first when it touches my face, but soon the pain is drawn out. The mask of dirt, blood, tears is wiped away. The only thing left to conceal my countenance are the bruises that warp my features. I deem, however, that they will not be enough.

            Elhadron’s brow furrows as deep thought waves over him. He stares straight into my eyes and sighs.

            “I have seen you somewhere before…” he says a bit haltingly. “Were it not for those bruises, I would know you now. But the answer will come in time.”

            In truth, I too know him. Elhadron, the sister-son of Queen Estelwen, is not as much of a warrior as Sereg, but whatever he lacks in military prowess (which is not all that much) he makes up for in his fantastic skills as a healer. My life is in very trustworthy hands.

            He takes a bandage and begins to wrap my wounds as best he can.

           “Drink this,“ he says, taking a small flask and holding it up to my lips. “It will dull the pain.”

            Soon enough a refreshing elixir glides down my throat, hot as fire and sweet as honey. Warmth spreads throughout my body all the way to my fingers and toes. My pain melts away. Not able and not daring to conjure up words, I nod my thanks.

            A melancholy look passes over Elhadron’s face. He stares at the ground as he corks the flask and sets it aside.

            “After you were liberated, the rest of the scouts wiped out the entirety of the goblin party.” He pauses. “They retrieved a man. One of the Dúnedain. Do you know him?”

            I close my eyes and force back the tears that have begun to prick them. Slowly I nod.

            “He traveled with us for a time. And we are grieved that harm would come to him. One could not wish for a better friend.” His eyes shift from the ground to my face. “Do you know what happened?”

            I nod, but cannot bring myself to speak.

            “You need not tell me now if you are not strong enough. Just rest easy. I shall be right here, should you need anything. Sleep now. You are well protected.”

            His words still ring in my ears and soothe me as I drift off.  


	7. Healing

** Seven **

_Healing_

           

            When I awake, darkness has quietly descended on the wood. The encampment lies almost in a trance; the only things to break the silence are the soft crackle of the campfire and the lively chirp of crickets. Holes in the forest canopy reveal the stars that fleck the heavens, the paths of their light lining the sky like white ribbons in a sea of dark hair.

            Stiffness has replaced my pain, and no matter how hard I try I cannot force my muscles into movement. I finally roll over, letting out a grunt with the effort. My eyes scream when the light of the fire pounces on them, but eventually they adjust, focusing in on the scene around it.

            Both Elhadron and Sereg sit around the fire, the only two besides myself that are actually awake and alert. Elhadron shifts the logs and embers of the fire, causing a flame to shoot up into the darkness and cast an orange glow around his face. Sereg’s hood is up, cloaking his countenance in shadows that automatically refine the sharpness of his features. Neither of them have seemed to notice me.

            “Has the _ellon_ spoken to you?” Sereg abruptly inquires, snapping Elhadron from some sad reverie.

            “A little. He was too weak to speak, for the most part. He was, however, able to tell me his name. Esgalion.” He suddenly stops.

            Sereg returns the silence with a questioning look.

            “He knows Aradan. And apparently knows of what exactly happened to him. That came from a few nods.”

            Sereg nods. “Perhaps we will get more out of him when he recovers. And maybe some word on Caladhiel. I hope to the Valar that he has it.” He sighs. “There was no evidence of her being with the goblins; however, that does not rule out the possibility that…”

            A reassuring smile slowly paints itself on Elhadron’s face. “We will find her, Sereg. We will.”

            “She has proven herself to be _very_ elusive,” Sereg continues with a half-hearted and breathy laugh.

            “Which may yet be a blessing in disguise.”

            “What mean you?”

            “If we cannot find a trace of her, though we travel with some of Thranduil’s best trackers, then our enemies will not easily find her, either.”

            “If they do not already have her! If I find that to be the case, every single one of those monsters will wish that they had never been born!” He heaves a pained sigh. “And for her to just vanish into thin air the night before the wedding…”

            The tone of his voice sends a spear right through my heart.

            “Suppose Legolas was right? What if she actually _is_ running?” Elhadron says. “Not that she would, but that very well could be a possibility. She may not _want_ to be found.”

            At his words, my pounding heart leaps into my throat.

            For I know for a fact that she, indeed, does _not_ want to be found.

            “She was acting rather strangely in the days leading up to her disappearance. But many brides are uneasy during that time.”

            “And if not? If fate proves Legolas to be in the right? What then?”

            The answer sends a bolt of surprise through me.

            “Then I cannot force her to comply. That would break her. We will melt the rings, and I shall find another. If the marriage does not have her blessing, then it cannot go on, no matter how much that may sting.”

            As soon as the words escape him, I know that I have sorely misjudged him. And so has Caladhiel.

            “I want her happy. I want her safe. I want her _here_ , so I could comfort her. She is most likely terrified, if she is even alive…”

            “Peace, _mellon nín._ We will find her. I am sure of it. The Valar have already brought her through much. I know that they are watching over her now.”

            Silence rests over the camp once again. An owl hoots forlornly.

            At last Sereg stirs.

            “But this…Esgalion…I had never seen him or heard of him before the princess’s disappearance. He must be a commoner of some sort. But he appeared to be clothed in the garb of a palace guard…”

            “He is, but his armor is not as heavy as the norm.”

            “Strange…what would a palace guard be doing alone in the wild?”

            Elhadron shakes his head. “I know not. He is a long way from home.”

            “Aren’t we all?”

            Elhadron laughs, then stiff silence comes over them again. This time, it is Elhadron that breaks it.

            “He is rather small for an _ellon._ And there is something eerily familiar about him. I picked up on it as soon as he spoke. And the look in his eyes…I have seen it somewhere before. When I told him he seemed familiar, he immediately tensed up.”

            “Strange…” Sereg sighs.

            “Reason for suspicion?”

            “Perhaps. But I deem not.” He pauses. “But what in all of Arda could he be hiding from us?”

            “The answer will come in time, if there is indeed a need for one. I deem that being out in this chaos for so long has heightened all of our suspicions immensely.”

            “You are indeed wise to be able to see that, Elhadron. How badly was he beaten?”

            “He bears many bruises, but no broken bones. There are open wounds all over one side of his face and on the side of his head, but they will heal. I have no doubt that he will live.”

            “That is good,” Sereg says.

            “The medicine I gave him should have the bruises and lacerations on his face all but healed by tomorrow night. And his strength will definitely have fully returned by the morning.”

            A chill shoots up my spine. For as they speak, a soft warmth begins to spread all the way out to my extremities. The numb coldness is chased away, and the strength in my muscles begins to return. And fast. Slowly, gingerly, I raise a hand to my face, running my fingers over the scratches, which have now turned to ridges that run along my face, No pain comes from the extra pressure, and I quickly realize that they are more like Men’s scars than open wounds. The same is true for the bruises: the pain is remarkably alleviated. If it weren’t for my severe hunger, I would feel like myself again. And I loathe it. Suddenly I begin to regret throwing that mask away, for I may need it again ere this is over.

            Or should I just let go?

            Should I give in and allow them to know?

            Get out of this mess? Go home? And face the consequences so soon?

            My brow furrows as the answer storms into my mind.

            No.

            After my stomach and water skin are full and my weapons and belongings are recovered, I will do what I have been doing for what has seemed like the past eternity.

            Flee.

 


	8. Running

** Eight **

_Running_

 

            Moonlight still eerily slips through the canopy when I come to my senses. The wood is unsettlingly still. Elhadron and Sereg both lay silent, Sereg on his side and Elhadron with a blank face staring out to the world. A lone wolf forlornly cries. Besides a few guards, none but myself are awake. I decide that now is the time to make my move.

            Pensively I sit up, surprised at the rate that my stiffness has departed from me. My hunger is my only real obstruction, but I deem that I can deal with that later. I lift a hesitant hand to my face, running it over my temples, my jaw, my nose. When no part of me responds with hostile pain, my heart leaps into my throat.

            The bruises, the gashes, are gone.

            If anyone sees me, even in my filthy, half-starved state…

            Frantic but silent I get to my feet. Apprehensively I tiptoe around, grabbing hold of the first set of weapons I can get my hands on, which, as the will of the Valar would prove, are of a much better make than my originals. Beside a short sword and a bow and quiver, I snag a sturdy hunting knife. I then slip back to my makeshift bed and grab one of the blankets.

            My new knife whispers as I unsheathe it. Hurriedly I saw about six inches from the bottom of the blanket and tie the scrap fast over my features. When I yank the hood up, my countenance melts into one mysterious and lonely shadow, and my eyes fill with tears.

            Aradan.

            My thoughts travel back to the gallant Ranger. To how much he cared. And to how much I truly did love him, despite my feigned hatred and genuine mistrust. I long to see him again, and I suddenly realize that though I know that my kinsman retrieved his body, I have not the slightest idea as to what they did with it. Before I depart, I tell myself, I must find out.

            Wrapping myself in my cloak and my blankets to conceal my weapons and shut out the cold, I slip away from the fire and into the shadows. My heart drops when I almost run headlong into a sentry. By some wonder, he softly smiles.

            “It is good to see you up and moving. Indeed, Lord Elhadron is truly a miracle worker. The sun has not yet risen, and yet here you are.”

            Suspicion creeps into his voice and causes me to cringe. But when his face softens, I relax.

            “I deem that you are wondering what became of your friend.”

            Dejectedly and rather curtly I nod.

            “We are taking him back to the palace. Apparently he is a good friend of King Thranduil, as well as Lord Elhadron and poor Lady Caladhiel. Alas, she would be heartbroken if she knew.”

            _My friend,_ I long to say, _you have no idea…_

            “Where is he now?” I croak, my words gravelly and low.

            “Come,” he replies, “I will take you to him.”

            Nodding, I follow him past two other sentries and into a small clearing. Torchlight forlornly dances in my eyes and wisps around a solitary figure that lies lifeless on a makeshift litter.

            The guard lays a gentle hand on my shoulder as he whispers, “I take my leave.”

            His footfall on the foliage fades away into the bleak and pours loneliness into me. I am immediately attacked by the cold. I step forward, kneel beside the stretcher, and slip the mask from my face. I have nothing to hide from him.  

            Peaceful and ghastly in the firelight Aradan lies sleeping. The icy air leaks into my cocoon when my hand slips from its confines and gingerly touches Aradan’s raven hair. My hot tears fall freely onto his cold and ashen face. My seclusion, though it gnaws at my spirit, now becomes an ally. For the first time since my capture, I fully succumb to my confusion at this thing called death, my sorrow at my friend’s passing, and my incommunicable rage at myself.

            “Why did I ever leave you?” I soundlessly sob. “Why did I ever leave home? If it had not been for my foolishness, none of this ever would have happened. I am so _sorry,_ Aradan. For everything. For being so selfish. For being so cruel. Why did I not just accept your friendship? Why was I so blind? And, by the Valar, why in all of Arda did I hide? I could have died beside you. I would have. I _should_ have! I should be in your place, for I am the one that deserves it! Forgive me, Aradan! I implore you, forgive me!”

            For how long I sit there I do not know. For hours it seems I stare into his lifeless face and ruthlessly scold myself without making a sound. But when the sun begins to creep over the tree line and a soft and agile footfall approaches, I know my precious time with him is running out. I spring to my feet, yank up the mask, and flee into the thickets like a frightened fawn. The crunch of the foliage grows nearer; I crouch in the bushes and wait.

            At last Elhadron appears. Sadness, worry, even betrayal gleam in his eyes; he looks back and forth between the trees for any sign of life or movement. His eyes meet mine, though he does not realize it, and my heart begins to pound as a war drum. I long to run, but I cannot rip myself away.

            Finally he breaks the connection. His eyes scan the canopy; he turns around a few times before I just barely pick up his soft words over the song of the night.

            “Lady Caladhiel?”

            My heart leaps and sinks all at the same time.

            His voice raises.

            “Caladhiel?”

            I bite my lip.

            He sighs and his proud stature slumps.

            “I thought I heard you…”

            Inwardly I chastise myself for my weakness as more tears stream down my face.

            His face is bathed in a single stream of white moonlight as he directs his gaze heavenwards.

            “We will find you, cousin,” he softly promises. “We will get you home. We will get you back to your father. Just hold on. I beg you…hold on…”

            That is all I can force myself to listen to. Bidding soft and final goodbye to Aradan, I slowly rise and slink away. When out of earshot, I begin running. Swift, hard, and silent. Fear, guilt, shock drive me onwards, driving out the burn that has started to seep into my muscles. I think nothing of provisions. I think nothing of my bearings. I think nothing of _survival_. My sole desire is escape.

            Darkness blinds me. Tree roots snap at my ankles, longing to catch me in their grasp and drag me down to the forest floor. I duck, jump, sidestep, but never stop running. Even as the sun slips up into the sky, I still press onwards. Eventually adrenaline’s elixir wears off, but still I crash through the trees. Roaring with hunger, my stomach flips over itself, and the rest of my body screams for quarter. Finally, after hours of speed, my body collapses under the exertion.

            I flop face down in sweet grass; I grab hold of clumps and haul myself forward, bit by agonizing bit. Warmth bathes me, and an unbearable light attacks my eyes, which are held unbreakably shut. At last I succeed at prying my eyelids apart, and the sight before me knocks the wind out of me.

            A pale sky stretches over an expanse of gold, barren field. The sun, wherever she may be, masks herself behind walls of cloud. Behind me stands the solid black-green wall of the forest. I begin to shake uncontrollably. Finally I manage to haul myself to my feet. Thunder rumbles.

            For the first time in sixty years, I am out of Mirkwood.

            Leaving all security behind and having no way of knowing what direction I take, I trudge forward. After some time the heavens break open; a thick sheet of late autumn rain drenches me. I pull my cloak tight to my body and stumble on. Finally my stubbornness wears out and I involuntarily collapse in the mud, completely lost, cold and alone.


	9. Hope

** Nine **

_Hope_

 

            Leagues are covered in inches as I claw my way across the plain. The days crawl by. Wrenched with hunger and driven mad with exhaustion, the most I can do is keep from drowning in the never ending rainfall that always threatens to turn to flood. The only warm thing to touch my skin are the tears of loneliness that slide down my cheeks.

            The only water I have found for days only comes from the clouds. No lakes. No rivers. _Nothing._ My tongue turns to sandpaper, my vision splotches, my head spins. Only one drop of the pure and soothing liquid running down my burning throat might be enough to restore my sanity. But only company will be enough to restore my hope.

            I have seen no one for miles. Soaked to the skin, chilled to the bone, and miserable, I flop down in the mud again. The stone of my heart has shattered. No food, no light, no reprieve, all I can do is give up. All I want is to die.

            But when footsteps slog onto my radar, I discover that the Valar have other ideas.

            “Swee’ Elb’reth!” a voice mutters under its breath.

            Immediately the steps pick up to a run. Soon enough a hurried hand flips me over onto my back. My eyes meet the shocked face of a young man.

            “’E’s alive!” he whispers. His voice raises. “Bevan, Bevan, come quick!”

            Another being morphs into view from the haze of rain. A second man, appearing to be about ten years older than the first, bends over the first’s shoulder.

            “What’ve we got ‘ere?”

            “Can’t tell. ‘E’s too muddy. But ‘e’s alive.”

            Bevan sighs. “Pretty sure ‘at he’s a she, Maddock.”

            I deem that they do not see my cocked eyebrow beneath the shadow of the mask.

            “Can’t be," Maddock says. "What’d a woman be doin’ all the way out ‘ere alone? An' dressed like that?”

            “I take yer point.”

            His eyes scan the ground around me. He stops dead when he beholds an object. Slowly he bends down and picks it up, scrutinizing it closely. It is my bow.

            "This must be his," he finally says. "But I've never seen the likes of it b'fore..." His voice trails off, and he sighs.

            Silence plagues the air yet again and all but drives me mad.

            Quickly Maddock glances over me. "Well...what're we s'posed to do with 'im? We can't just leave 'im 'ere."

            "'At's a given," Bevan agrees. "I mean look at him. 'E's starvin'. We'll take 'im back to Mum and Da."

            "Aye."

            They both sling one of my arms over their shoulders and haul me to my feet. I let out a small groan, too weak to do much else, and hang like a corpse between them.

            "Easy, there," Bevan tries to soothe. "'T's not far. You'll be warm b'fore ya know it."

            The mere thought consoles me enough to set my feet underneath me properly. As I hobble away, a small voice inside me whispers a sweet something that I have long forgotten:

            _There is always hope._

            Eventually a pale orange light breaks through the bleak. Its glow nears and spreads, and a modest building comes into view. Soon enough we pass below a crude wooden sign that sways back and forth in the tempest. Inscribed on the worn oak is a word that sends relief surging through me like a bolt of fire:

            _Inn._

            "Thank the Valar..." I murmur, and trip inside.

            "Mum! Da!" Bevan booms. "Come quick!"

            Soon enough a kindly looking older man dressed in menial garb rounds the corner. When he sees me, he stops dead. His eyes grow wide and compassion flows into them.

            "Swee' Elb'reth..." His voice trails off. "Where'd this come from?"

            "Found 'im outside flopped in the mud," Maddock replies. "Not in good shape at all."

            "Elsa!" the father calls. "Elsa!"

            "What is it _now,_ Glynn?" an almost exasperated voice sighs. "Already got a million things to do!"

            Its owner, a flustered and wiry woman, appears.

            "One more and I'll..."

            Her jaw drops.

            "Oh...my goodness! What's this?"

            "'At's up for debate," Maddock quips.

            Shaking her head, Elsa sighs. "Is 'e alright?"

            "Decidedly not," Bevan replies. "He's naught but skin and bones. Soaked through and shiverin'."

            "Well, don't just stand there!" Elsa orders. "Get 'im to the fire!"

            With that they haul me forward. Bevan practically sweeps me off my feet while Maddock pushes a roughly crafted chair right up beside a broad hearth. The flames belch warmth. When Bevan sets me down, I sink into the chair and sigh, finally starting to relax. As I begin to thaw, a terrible gnawing that had been previously numbed by the cold viciously and rapidly returns. I realize that it has been at least a fortnight since last I ate. But when Glynn approaches with a basin and Elsa follows with a small bowl full of something steaming, I know that is about to change. I find the strength to sit up a bit straighter.

            "Let's get some of that mud off you before you eat anythin'," he says gently, swishing a slightly frayed cloth in the basin and wringing it out.

            Every so gently he wipes the mud from my features. The most I can do is tense when he removes the mask. No wonder or shock flies into his eyes when he beholds my face, just a steady stream of compassion.

            "Yer obviously far from home," he finally says. "But how'd you get so lost? Besides our little establ'shment, there ain't anyone for miles."

            I remain silent and try to keep the smell of whatever it is Elsa holds from driving me mad. My expression blank with exhaustion, I stare at him.

            "Don't think 'e understands you," Elsa whispers.

            "Why wouldn't 'e?"

            "'E's an Elf, you bloke!" Her voice hardens to a hiss. "Prob'ly only speaks Elvish!"

            "How d'you know that?"

            Elsa slaps her forehead. "Look at 'im! Ain't it obvious?"

            Glyn studies my countenance.

            "Bless me...you're right, Elsa."

            "Now _that_ explains some things!" Maddock says.

            "Aye," Bevan agrees, "Now I know why I couldn't put a finger on where 'at bow's from. 'T's of Elvish make. But it opens the door to a million more questions. How in the world did 'e get all the way out 'ere? The wood ain't for leagues! And's across the river!"

            So I forded a river and knew it not.

            "'T's awfully big. And deep. Hard to cross." Glynn rubs his hand over the grey stubble on his chin.

            Sighing, Elsa shakes her head. "Don't know..." Her voice trails off and she turns to me. "Prob'ly don't understand me, friend, so it's most likely no use sayin' it, but you're made of tougher stuff than you realize." She sets the bowl in front of me. "It's bland, but anythin' else'd probably make you sick, if you're anythin' like us. Eat up, and I'll see to getting you somethin' dry to put on." With that she turns on her heel and hurries off.

            Slowly I sit forward and take the bowl in my hands. When my eyes finally behold food, I snatch up the crude wooden spoon and all but shove the first few bites down my throat. Never has anything so bland tasted so good...

            Laughing good-naturedly, Glynn holds his hand up.

            "Slow down, boy!" he says. "You'll make yerself sick 'f ya eat it that fast!"

            Momentarily I chastise myself for forgetting that minute detail. Using up every ounce of self-discipline that I can muster, I heed his words.

            Glynn's eyes pop. "Y...you do understan' me, dontcha?"

            I barely have enough energy to conjure up a nod.

            "Bless me..." He laughs merrily. "You must be pretty important back home then, eh? Thought only the royals spoke Common Tongue."

            A sliver of a smile cracks across my face as I shake my head.

            Glynn smiles. "Well then. Maybe we'll talk a bit more when you've got yer strength back. But fer now, finish that. Elsa should 'ave a room ready for ya in a bit."

            I sigh again. How long as it been since last I slept in a warm bed?

            When I finally finish the meal, Glynn helps me to my feet. We take a few steps just in time for Elsa to round the corner. She smiles when she sees me on my feet.

            “’E already looks a bit better! Knew that gruell’d do ‘im good!”

            “Aye,” Glynn agrees. “And you were wrong about one thing, Elsa.”

            Elsa cocks an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

            Glynn grins. "‘E’s an Elf, alright. But he can understand us. So tell the boys to watch themselves, lest they ‘ave an Elvish lord on their tails!”

            Elsa’s jaw drops.

            For the first time in what seems like ages, a genuine smile lights up my face.


	10. Unearthed

** Ten **

_Unearthed_

            A wave of light bathes me as I sit up from my small bed. Hope rekindles in my spirit when I realize the clouds have dried, the winds have calmed, and the Sun has returned victorious. Victorious, indeed. Its yellow beams nearly blind my unaccustomed eyes; for the first time in sixty years, I can finally bask in the full warmth and glory of it.

            Shoving back the sheets, I stretch and sigh. Resting on a real mattress for the first time in months has definitely given my battered body immeasurable help. And sleeping behind lock and key has given my soul immeasurable peace.

            I feel _good,_ for once.

            My feet barely make a sound as they touch the crude wooden floors. I change into the clothes laid out for me, obviously Maddock's, and slide my feet into my own worn boots. The garments are a bit big, but I make do. The distant smell of food finally draws me from the room, and my stomach growls when I appear in the main foyer of the inn.

            Elsa furiously sweeps the floors. Hearing me, she looks up and grins.

            “Didn’t think that was either o’ my boys,” she says, shifting her weight off to the side and planting her hand on her hip good naturedly. “Sure do look a lot better this mornin’. Ya obviously slept well.”

            Smiling myself, I nod.

            “What’s yer name?”

            “Esgalion,” I say softly.

            “You from Mirkwood, Esgalion?”

            Once again I nod.

            “Ah. Well, I’ve got breakfast for ya over here. Still ain’t much, but I don’t fancy makin’ you sick.” She gesticulates towards one of the tables. “Sit down.”

            I do as she says while she bustles around the corner. In the blink of an eye she comes back with a steaming bowl in her hands. She sets it down in front of me, and I dig in.

            "It's amazin' just how quick you've bounced back," she says. "Must be some sort o' magic behind it...."

            I merely shrug.

            "How long d'ye think ye'll be stayin'?"

            I tense at the question.

            "Ye don't know, do ya?"

            I shake my head. "I should doubtless try to be on the move as soon as possible," I mumble.

            Her eyes soften. "Yer lost, aren't ya?"

            I sigh. "I would rather not talk about it."

            She nods and does not press me further, so I find it within myself to continue.

            "But my...errand...is urgent, and whatever you can do to get me back on the road would be greatly appreciated."

            "We'll do what we can," she says with a reassuring grin. "You can stay 's long as ye need to. But you'll need to earn yer keep while you're here. Once yer up to workin', that is."

            I nod. Then it hits me.

            "Where exactly _is_ here?"

            "Yer about ten miles west o' Dale," she says, absentmindedly going back to her chores, "and a right good many leagues away from home!"

            My eyes pop.

            "Went a good deal further than ye thought, didn't ye?"

            I nod rather vigorously.

            She chuckles and briefly stops sweeping to get a good look at me. "You sure are quiet..."

            I merely turn back to my food in response. She seems to pick up on my uneasiness and scrambles to change the subject.

            "Ever been to Dale b'fore?"

            "Many years ago," I reply. "A few months after the Dragon was slain."

            Her jaw drops. "That was sixty years ago!"

            I nod rather nonchalantly.

            "We were living in Esgaroth when that beast attacked. I was just a girl at the time. But I certainly remember that day. Felt like an earthquake, a fiery earthquake. And the wind was howlin' right fiercely. But now ole Smaug's long gone, and I'm glad for it.” She shudders.

            “Then a few weeks later the Elves showed up. Now _that_ was a sight to behold.” She grins as the memories flood back to her. “You were prob’bly with ’em, weren’t ye?”

            I nod.

            “I remember catchin’ a glimpse o’ the king. An' to be quite honest with ye, he scared me.”

            I laugh, perhaps a bit harder than I should.

            “Saw the prince too. Leastways, I _think_ it was the prince. Looked uncannily like his father. And even the princess was there. Didn't see too much o' her at all, but the little look I did get...she sure was a pretty thing.” She sighs. “Didn't have th' slightest idea as t' what was comin' for 'em, did they?”

            I shake my head.

            "Please tell me they made it out o' that scrap alive."

            "Barely," I whisper. "Just barely..."

            "Wonder where they are now," she muses.

            I merely shrug again. I cannot afford to tell her.

            Silence falls over us again.

            “Ya feel up to doin’ anythin’ today?”

            I nod. I need something to take the restlessness from my limbs.

            “Well, the stable needs t’ be cleaned out. Ole Baldor’s probably in there, but ’e’s a gentle old boy, never hurt anybody. ’F ye could do that, I s’pose Maddock would ’preciate it lots.”

            My stool squeals as I push back from the table.

            "'F ye go out the back door, y'can't miss it."

            I nod and, without a word, I head for the back door.

            Mid-November's chill whispers across my face in a soft breeze. The cloudless sky is a crisp blue, and birds dart across it. In the distance, to the East, the towering peak of the Lonely Mountain stands proud, but its presence looms ominously in my memory. My boots crunch on the first frost of the season as I stroll out to the crude stable yard. I melt into the shadows that the old building casts and slip inside.

            The sweet smell of horses greets me once I get through the door. I catch movement towards the back left corner of the stable. When I go to investigate, I am met by the gentle face and deep, kindly eyes of an old horse. He breathes a greeting, and I scratch the bright white star on his forehead in response. He then abruptly turns back to his hay, wrenching a chuckle out of me and reminding me of my work all at the same time. I shuffle over to the opposite wall, grab one of the pitchforks, and get to work.

            Though I have never once had to muck stalls, I find a rhythm rather quickly. From time to time Baldor’s huge head slips up, and he watches me intently. The stalls are small and the stable equally so, so I finish with much time to spare. I return the fork to its place, and when I turn around, Baldor is quizzically staring at me, hay hanging out of the corners of his working mouth. He is almost begging for attention, and I cave almost instantly.

            Pressing my fingers into his broad chest and commanding him to back up, I open the stall door and slip in beside him. He sniffs at me curiously. Slight confusion drifts into his being, and he studies me, almost saying: “You’re not Maddock, even though a part of you smells like him.”

            I chuckle. “No, I am not Maddock, but I will not hurt you.”

            The sound of my voice and the rhythm of my mother tongue calms him a bit. I quickly gain his trust, and soon enough his head droops, his bottom lip quivers, and his back hoof cocks upward as I rub his ears.

            I softly smile. “I see you like that. My horse does as well, though he possess much more spirit. His name is Tálagor, for he could outrun the wind itself if he so chose. He is back home. Where I should be.”  

            I pause and sigh.

            “I never should have left, Baldor, but I allowed my fear to have the upper hand. Catastrophe follows in my wake. The realm is distraught. My family is most likely terrified for me. And two noble men are...dead...because of me. I might as well have fed them to the Goblins. And not just them, but undoubtedly some of my own kin as well. Their blood is on my hands, Baldor. And you are the only one that I can confide in.”

            I lean up against his thick neck and get my fingers tangled in his thick mane.    

            “You do not understand my words, but I know you feel my pain. That is why I love your kind so much. You empathize so easily...and yet you do not judge. And you will never tell anyone of this. You can’t.”

            He turns and nuzzles me. I scratch him just under his forelock.

            “I have made a terrible mistake.”

            Just as I am about to continue, Baldor’s head shoots up. He whinnies a greeting. I follow his gaze and find Maddock leading a new horse inside. He grins when he sees me.

            “Gettin’ acquainted, I see. Ol’ Baldor’s a good horse. An’ a good friend. Don’t think ‘e’s ever met anyone ‘e didn’t take to.”

            He turns his attention back to the regal animal that stands beside him. “But get a look at this beauty! Don’t think I’ve ever seen a horse so black in all my life!”

            I peel myself away from Baldor and approach the other horse’s streamlined shoulder.

            “He is of an Elvish breed,” I say. A realization starts to form in my mind. “You could not wish for a finer mount. His name is Deroch, and he belongs to...”

            My voice trails off and my blood freezes in my veins.

            “ _Rhaich...”_

            Concern knits Maddock’s brow. “What is it?”

            “How in all of Arda did they find me...?”

            “What? Who?”

            I poke my head out of the doorway. I sprint to the back of the inn once I realize the coast is clear, Maddock calling after me.

            Familiar voices drift in from the lobby. Instinctively I freeze.

            “We found ’im lyin’ in the mud face first last night. ‘E was obviously lost, so we took ’im in.” Bevan’s voice is grave.

            “And for that, I thank you. You have no idea what service you have done the Woodland Realm through your kindness. You shall no doubt be rewarded, and richly at that.”

            My blood runs cold. That voice, as I suspected, is Elhadron’s.

            “Where is he now?” he continues.

            Silence.

            “Please. The matter is urgent.”

            “Wait...is ’e some sort o’ criminal?” Fear teeters on the edge of Elsa’s words.

            “No, madam. But he is not at all who he says he is. That is why we must find him.”

            The sound of that voice knocks the wind out of me.

            “It cannot be...” I whisper.

            My shock draws me from my hiding place. When my eyes behold the sight, my jaw drops. I find myself fighting back tears. Glyn, Elsa, and Bevan all stand between me and a very grave Elhadron.

            My heart leaps and shatters all at the same time.

            For next to Elhadron stands a walking miracle.

            Aradan.

            Momentarily our eyes lock. The Ranger makes a move towards me, and, instead of freezing me to the spot, fear kicks my limbs into the fastest run that I can manage. Though obviously weaker than normal, Aradan’s long stride does not fail him. Eventually he catches up to me, grabs my wrist, and pulls me into his arms. Initially I fight for all it is worth, but eventually I begin to sob, clinging to him to keep from toppling over. All the while he rocks me, whispering my name, my _true name_ , in my ear.

            “Caladhiel.”


	11. Reunion

** Eleven **

_Reunion_

 

 

            Caladhiel.

            After all this time, the sound of my own true name feels foreign. I fight for life and limb to calm myself, but I cannot. A tempest of emotion blows inside me, an inexplicable concoction of sorrow, guilt, terror. But the most confusing of all is the relief. At least now, I no longer have to run. I am no longer alone. And my danger is not as apparent.

            But at what cost?

            At the mere thought, I begin to tremble all the more. I pick up snippets of a conversation between Elhadron and the innkeepers; their shock almost outweighs his severity.

            "What's happening?"

            "Who is he?"

            "Pretty sure 'at he's a she, Bevan."

            All I hear of Elhadron's attempts at a response are "Lady Caladhiel...daughter of Thranduil...ran away...marriage..." before he takes the family inside to continue to fill them in. Aradan, for his part, begins to hum softly, and his deep, rolling voice consoles me enough to put my feet back under me.

            How in all of Arda is he even _here?_

Strong and steady as ever, though I still struggle to block the image of his ashen, _dying_ face from my memory? To shut the pain in his last words, _my name,_ from my ears?

            Even more profound of a question is _why._

            After all I put him through, the mistrust, the deception, the _lies._

Even after I left him to die.

            He deserves to return the favor, to let me wander in the swamps until my feet rot, and yet he stands here, holding me, doing his best to console me, even though his mere presence is much of what rips me apart.

            He guides me over to a hay bale and sits me down out of the view of the inn. I rest my pounding head on his shoulder and begin to slowly catch my breath. Sighing, he leans back against the stable wall, still with me in his arms. Even the birds are quiet, and the wind stops her singing. All on the outside is perfectly still. All on the inside is anything but. And I sense I'm not the only one.

            Finally Aradan breaks the silence.

            "You have given us a fair amount of trouble, my lady."

            He only attempts to lighten the mood a bit, but to no real avail.

            I cannot even look at him.

            "It gives me great joy to see you alive," he adds rather awkwardly.

            _Why?_

            I kick myself when I realize that the question escaped my lips.

            "What?"

            I sit up before I reply.

            "After all I put you through, you should wish to see me dead! And I wouldn't blame you if you did." A few more tears escape my eyes. "Why don't you?"

            "You once saved my life. I mean only to return the favor."

            At that response I am both infuriated and fascinated. I finally force my eyes to his face. He manages a small smile, though it cannot mask the sadness that hides behind his eyes. As much as it took for me to trust him, I get the sneaky suspicion that it will take mountains more for him to trust me again. Guilt begins to eat me alive.

            "I am so sorry..."

            He only looks away in response. I, for one, fight to wipe my tears away, but the more I try, the more they come. A small part of me wants to get up, but my legs, and my heart for that matter, are not willing to comply. Aradan sighs and tenses a bit, and I know that what he is about to say will not be easy.

            "Why didn't you tell me?"

            There is no anger in his words, only an overwhelming hurt.

            "I could have helped you..."

            "You would have sent me home!"

            Regret slaps me in the face. I can only sigh.

            "I...I would have told you, Aradan. At one point I nearly did...but I too greatly feared the consequences."

            I stare at my feet, and Aradan sighs. Then I finally voice the question that rampages through my conscience.

            "How...how are you even here?"

            His brow furrows.

            "I...I thought you were dead..."

            He smiles. "Lord Elhadron is a miracle worker."

            I nod and turn back to the horizon. The Sun rises almost directly above our heads, and birds begin to sing. Slowly I stand up. Aradan rapidly gets his feet under him and moves to grab my wrist, but I pull away.

            "You need not worry about that," I say. "I couldn't outrun you if I tried."

            A bit awkwardly Aradan recoils.

            I sigh. "How did you even find me?"

            A small smile cracks across the young Ranger's face. "You left quite the trail from Sereg's encampment. It must have been a closer call than Elhadron gives it credit for. Tracing ourselves back to the outpost and finding your trail was fairly easy. The difficulty was keeping it after it led beyond the forest."

            "You obviously managed," I whisper.

            Silence overcomes us again.

            "The palace is indeed strange without you there," Aradan finally mutters. "Empty."

            The mention of home sends another pang of guilt through me. Though I am afraid to voice the question that whispers in my mind, I still manage to find the words.

            "Did you..." I swallow. "Did you see my father?"

            Aradan shakes his head. "He made himself rather scarce," he replies. He stands, and I hear him begin to move towards me, but he stops short for some reason.

            "How...how is he?" I manage.

            "I know not much, but I am sure that his burdens weigh heavily upon him. He would see no one in the short time I was there. Elhadron most likely knows more than I, but..." He sighs.

            My brow furrows. "But what?"

            He straightens a bit, starting forward a bit awkwardly.

            "I will take you to him."

            With that we shuffle back to towards the inn. Elhadron immediately rises when we enter, and the innkeepers merely stare at us with an odd and simple wonder. Calm and sad, Elhadron makes his way over to me. He hesitates for a breath and then catches me up in an embrace that nearly suffocates me. In spite of myself, I return it.

            "Thank the Valar," he whispers. "Thank the Valar!"

            "Elhadron, I..."

            "Shh," he says, gently cutting me off. "You needn't explain yourself. Not now."

I can only stare at him with vacant eyes, and a small smile cracks across his face.

            "Your father will be overjoyed to know that you are safe," he says.

            Elsa motions for Glynn and the boys to take their leave, and as they quietly slip away, she follows them, stealing one last glace at me before she disappears. I back away from Elhadron and sit in a crude chair beside the fire, resting my pounding head in my hands.

            Soon enough a warm hand rests on my shoulder. When I glance up, Aradan's eyes meet mine, but he cannot find any words to say. It is Elhadron, who takes a knee in front of me, that speaks.

            "Caladhiel...I know this will be difficult for you to hear, but things have only grown darker in your absence. The spiders have grown significantly in number, and...and the palace has been openly attacked by Orcs at least twice. Some strange evil has always festered in Dol Guldur, and was tamed for a time, but we fear that it has returned, and that it may be stronger this time."

            My jaw drops.

            "Attacked?"

            Elhadron nods gravely. "The first came not but two days after you went missing. The creature Gollum escaped our dungeons then. The second came about two moons later."

            He pauses for a second.

            "As far as King Thranduil knows, his son is at least half-way across Middle Earth doing Eru only knows what, and...and his daughter…"

            He looks me dead in the eye before he continues.

            "His daughter, he thinks dead, Caladhiel."

            My head reels.

            _Dead?_

A few tears spill down my cheeks.

            "Oh, what have I done to him...?" I whisper almost numbly.

            Aradan gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Elhadron, for his part, continues softly.

            "Recently he has spent most of his time in seclusion. He sees no one, does next to nothing, though we all know that war is all but upon us." He shakes his head. "You are needed more than you know. Seeing you alive will give him hope."

            Slowly, reluctantly, I nod.

            "Do not worry about Sereg," Aradan murmurs. "We will cross that bridge when the time comes."

            I lean back in my chair, close my eyes, and heave a heavy sigh. Aradan's touch bafflingly soothing.  

            "We will leave at dawn for Dale," Elhadron states, standing up. "We'll resupply there, and then make haste to the Woodland Realm."

            Somehow I manage to break my gaze from the floor. Finally I look up at Aradan, whose face wears a soft and saddened smile.

            "You’re going home."


	12. Starlight

** Twelve **

_Starlight_

 

 

 

 

 

            A quiet chill nips at my face as I sit alone on the rickety back porch of the inn. Wrapped in a warm blanket lent to me by Elsa, I lean back against one of the supports. The small wisps of my breath are the closest things to clouds that the sky holds, and the bright stars dot the black sky like an intricate ornament of diamonds in the dark. Occasionally a shuffle from the inside of the inn or the faint whisper of the wind break the stillness, but for the most part, all remains tranquil, at least, on the outside.

            I fight to force the coming storm from my head, struggle to block all the hurts, both inflicted and received, that it implies from my heart. Merely thinking of Sereg is enough to make my stomach clench, and when I imagine how my father's face will twist with a concoction of unnamed emotions when he sees me again, when he learns the full truth of what I've done...

            It will be a miracle of Elbereth herself if he can forgive me. But regaining his trust _,_ I deem, will be downright impossible. Staring at the stars, I lift one small plea from the depths of my heart, hoping that at least one of the Valar will hear:

            _Please let me reconcile with him. Please._

            A sudden burst of cold whips through the wind, and I pull the blanket tighter, curling up into a small ball until it passes. No one seems to have noticed my absence, so the faint squeak of the door opening and the creak of the old porch’s resistance to the extra weight surprise me a bit. I glance up and force a small smile.

            “I brought you something,” Aradan says, offering one of the steaming mugs that he carries to me. “It isn’t exactly your father’s wine, but it will warm you up.”

            Hesitantly I slip one of my arms from my cocoon and accept the mug. After taking a sip, I mutter, “It’s not bad.”

            “No,” Aradan replies, “but I’ve had better.”

            I take another sip and force another smile. “Thank you.”

            “Of course,” he says softly.

            Taking a small step backwards, Aradan give me a small nod and begins to retreat. But just as he turns his back, I find myself speaking, to my shock.

            “You...you don’t have to leave, Aradan.”

            Immediately I feel foolish. Where that even came from, I know not.

            He stops dead. Slowly he turns back around. His face seems to have brightened, if only infinitesimally. But I know that much still weighs heavily on him, and though I can sense that he wants to, he does not come closer. His brow furrows a bit.

            “Do you not wish to come inside, my lady?” he says, stammering a little. “It’s much warmer.”

            Staring at the mug in my hands, I only shake my head.

            We sink into silence. I fancy I feel his grey eyes on me, but when I steal a glance out of the corner of my eye, I find him staring at the floorboards.

            My mind travels back to the man he once was. I remember the spark of quiet strength that used to rest in his eye, the bright smile that always in some way played at his features, the clear song of laughter that always seemed a breath away. I remember the first day I even met him, how his face twisted with the pain from the many wounds that marred his broken body, and how, when he awoke in the safety of my father's halls, his trembling hand all but seized mine as I softly told him: _you are in the halls of the Elvenking, you are safe now..._

            He was afraid then.

            But I get the suspicion that that was nothing in comparison to that which haunts him now.

            Burrowing farther into my blanket, I attempt to return my attention to the horizon, but words begin to burn inside of me. Though I feel as if my mouth is slowly being sewn shut, I somehow find it within me to speak.

            “Aradan, I...” I sigh. “I, I know that I have wounded you greatly, and that things will most likely never be the same as they once were. I have no right to ask this of you...but I would have your friendship, if you are still willing to give it. If not, I...I understand.”

            He remains quiet for a second. Then slowly he begins to nod. A gentle smile takes the clouds from his countenance and the heaviness from his eyes.

            “I am willing,” he says softly, taking a small step forward.

            I smile in response, small and genuine. I motion him closer, and he takes the invitation, tactfully sitting beside me. Quiet descends over us again, but this time it is a bit more comfortable. My eyes return to the heavens, and when they catch a familiar sight perched in the night sky, I lean towards Aradan a bit.

            “Do you see that constellation just above the stable?” I murmur, pointing towards it.

            He leans a bit closer to me, and his eyes follow my finger. After a second, he nods an affirmation.

            “It is Menelvagor,” I continue. “The Swordsman of the Sky. It was said that Elbereth placed those stars in the heavens to remind the Eldar of Dagor Dagorath, the Battle of Battles, at the end of which both Elves and Men will join the Valar and Illúvatar in a second song to create the world anew.”

            For a while the only sound to meet our ears is the song of the night.

            “A new beginning,” Aradan finally adds.

            I smile. “It speaks of a world without evil, without the bitterness of mortality, without death or pain...”

            A beat passes.

            “Hope,” Aradan says.

            I turn from the skies and find him staring right at me, eyes kind. A mysterious warmth spreads through me.

            “Yes,” I whisper. “Hope.”  

            Silence comes over us again. Our eyes meet, but almost as soon as the connection is made, it is quietly broken. Small clouds begin to appear in the sky, and one slips over Menelvagor. Its light, however, still manages to seep just barely through the shroud, and its brilliance cannot be fully diminished. Soon enough, though, I know that the clouds will journey on, leaving the Swordsman to shine in all its glory. For a while Aradan and I remain on the porch, sipping our drinks and trying our battered best at small talk. Every once in a while another cloud slips over the constellation, hiding its light from our sight, but by the end of the night when we slip back into the inn and to our separate chambers, the sky is relatively clear.

            The next morning when I stir, the Sun's fingers barely caress the blue-black twilight, and Menelvagor still smiles down upon me.

            I slip from bed and don my old clothes, which appear to have been washed and patched up, probably by Elsa. Even my worn boots have been rid of the thick layer of mud that they once carried. After I lace them up, I bind my hair back into one thick plait and let it fall over my shoulder. I then begin to cast about for my satchel, only to remember that it, along with many of the other things I once carried, were either taken by the goblins or left behind in my mad dash to escape Sereg's encampment. Sighing, I make my way into the main hall, where I sit quietly in front of the fire. I would take the inn to be completely empty if it weren't for the voices that slip into my ears from the porch.

            "'E won't be as fast or as lively as you're prob'ly used to, but 'e can definitely help get ye to Dale. We can come get 'im when you're there."

            "Are you sure your father will agree to this?"

            "'Course!" Maddock replies. "It was Da's idea!"

            "You have my thanks," Aradan says. "And that of the Woodland Realm as well, no doubt."

            I can all but feel Maddock's questions burning in the small silence that follows. After a while, he finally works up some courage.

            "The girl...what's 'er name again?"

            "Caladhiel?"

            "Ah, yeah, that's it. I can never remember it. It's a bit of a mouthful, for me, anyways."

            "I can see how it could be," Aradan replies. "Sindarin is not the easiest of languages to those that aren't used to it."

            "Wait, you speak it?"

            "My father was one of the Dúnedain, so I grew up speaking it," Aradan replies. "My mother spoke some as well, but not nearly as much."

            "Your father was a Ranger?" An excited curiosity leaps into Maddock's voice.

            Aradan chuckles a bit. "Aye, he was. So am I."  

            "How'd ye get all the way out here?"

            "The Chieftan of our people sent me and one other here on business. I cannot say specifically why."

            "Oh," Maddock says. "Where's the other one?"

            Aradan sighs, and his voice takes on a saddened tone. "He was killed."

            Something inside of me squirms.

            "Oh," Maddock replies softly. "I'm sorry."

            I hear the squeak of the porch boards as someone, I don't know who, shifts.

            "You two were out 'ere for quite awhile last night," Maddock says. "You and the lady."

            "I suppose we were," says Aradan.

            "She's pretty," Maddock sighs. "You're lucky."

            I suppress a laugh.

            A sense of wonder takes over Maddock's voice. "Is she really a princess?"

            "She is," Aradan replies.

            "Wow," Maddock says. "How's a bloke like you know a girl like _that_?"

            Aradan laughs a bit. "That is a long story."

            "Believe me," Maddock says, "I've got time."

            A small silence follows while Aradan chooses his words.

            "I was attacked in the wood and was badly wounded, and she took me in and saved my life," he finally says.

            "That's a fast way to make a friend, I'll warrant!" Maddock exclaims.

            "Not as fast as you would think," Aradan says. "She was rather wary of me for a while."

            "How'd you get past that?" Maddock asks.

            "She was curious," Aradan says. "That curiosity eventually overcame her fear. I would tell her stories of the lands to the West while she'd tend to me. It wasn't much, but she was fascinated."

            My mind travels back to those times and I smile to myself a bit. It always befuddled me as to how he had seen so much more of Middle Earth in his quarter of a century of living than I had in my half of a millennia. It still does.

            "But she always seemed sad for some reason, though she tried to hide it, and as time wore on, it only grew worse," Aradan continues. "I came to pity her greatly, though I knew that pity was the last thing she wanted from me."

            I never directly told him about my engagement until a few days before the wedding. I begin to wonder if things would be different now if I had.

            A beat passes.

            "Ye still do, dontcha?" Maddock says.

            Aradan doesn't respond.

            "Don't worry," Maddock whispers. "I won't tell her."

            Aradan only laughs softly.

            The porch creaks as Maddock crosses it.

            "Well, I've gotta go take care of Baldor," he says. "Ye can do whatever else ya need to do."

            I hear him descend the steps and his feet crunch the frosted grass as he makes his way to the stable. When the porch creaks again and the footsteps grow closer, I scramble to look as if I haven't been sitting here for as long as I have, so I rapidly unlace one of my boots and begin to lace it again just as Aradan walks in. He smiles when he sees me.

            "Good morning," I say nonchalantly, tying a few final knots in the laces and getting to my feet.

            "Good morning," he replies.

            Silence comes between us again for a second.

            "Glynn is going to lend us his horse long enough to get us to Dale," Aradan says.

            "That is good," I reply.

            Just then Elsa rounds the corner, a steaming bowl in each hand. She bustles to a nearby table and sets them down.

            "Couldn't let ye leave without at least giving you something to eat," she says, putting her hands on her hips.

            We make our way over to the table and sit down.

            "Thank you," I say.

            She nods and smiles in response.

            "How much do I owe you?" Aradan inquires, beginning to shuffle through his belongings.

            "Nothin', son," Elsa replies with a wink.

            Aradan stops short. "Are you sure?"

            "Positive," she says. "I'd hurry if I were you. Your friend's gettin' restless!"

            Aradan looks genuinely shocked. "Th-thank you!"

            Elsa's smile widens in response. "Of course."

            She then turns, grabs a broom, and sweeps the floor. Aradan and I begin to eat as quickly as we can.

            I realize it's the first time that I have not had to hide from him to eat a meal. It is a strange thought, but a rather refreshing one.

            "Where is Elhadron?" I ask. "I have not seen him all morning."

            Aradan swallows a bite before he speaks. "Here he is now."

            I turn around just in time for Elhadron to come through the front doors of the inn.

            "Everything has been attended to," he says. "We leave whenever you're ready, cousin."

            I nod. I can tell that he would rather it be sooner than later, but I find myself eating a bit slower. However, I know that I cannot hold off the consequences of my mistakes forever, and I do eventually finish. I slip back into my room and grab my weapons. After thanking Glynn and Elsa and assuring them that my father will learn of their kindness, I reluctantly make my way to where Maddock holds Baldor and Elhadron makes his way out of the stable leading Deroch.

            "It's not long to Dale from 'ere," Maddock says. "You should get there by evening."

            I smile at him, and his face turns crimson. I stifle a laugh.

            "Thank you," I say, "For everything."

            He grins. "Just did what we had to."

            Elhadron stops Deroch just beside Baldor. He then turns to Aradan and me.

            "One of you ride Baldor; the other, get on Deroch. Neither of you are fit to walk just yet."

            I would try to protest, but Aradan is already giving me a leg up onto Baldor and mounting Deroch himself before I can even form words.

            "Just leave him with the stablemaster in Dale," Maddock says. "'E's a good friend ours. We'll come and get him in a few days."

            "We will," Elhadron replies. "We are in your debt."

            "Be careful," Maddock says.

            "Farewell." I give Baldor's sides a squeeze as I speak.

            We turn and ride off towards the Sun. I know not what the future will hold, but when my eyes catch the last light of Menelvagor before it fades into the morning, a small thought whispers in my heart.

            Whatever happens, I will not face it alone.


	13. Fire

** Thirteen **

_Fire_

 

 

 

 

            Dale. I remember it in ruins, its buildings charred, its walls gouged by catapults, its streets crawling with filth. Now the white sides of its structures gleam with the pale pink sunset, its people bustle almost merrily through the streets, and the walls stand tall and strong. Behind it Erebor proudly towers, its peaks dusted with snow, just about daring anyone to challenge its position and prowess. A dare that I deem will soon be met, but for now, everything seems at relative peace. When my eyes catch Ravenhill, I find myself suddenly all the more thankful for that peace, and that, for these people, the darkness seems at least somewhat stayed.

            It does not take long for us to find the stablemaster. As he takes Baldor, he stares up at me with no small amount of wonder and perhaps a hint of confusion. Soon enough we’ve found an inn, and the next morning when we’ve rested up and resupplied, I find that some of the baggage of the past no longer weighs on my shoulders, and when I steal one last glance over my shoulder at Dale and Erebor renewed in the sunrise, I find my heart carries a lesser load. But in the days ahead when I catch the first glimpses of the dark line of the forest looming in front of me, an entirely new shadow creeps over me.

            I could disappear into the thick canopy and tangling underbrush of Mirkwood, and I find myself glad that I no longer have to. We weave between distorted trees, some covered in a thick goo of spider webs, as I have come to expect. But as we enter deeper into the forest, a new damage rests on some of the trunks and branches, a scarring that shocks and appalls me. I rub my hand over one such trunk.

            “These trees are charred,” I mutter, stunned.

            Aradan comes up behind me. “The Orcs have become quite fond of burning the forest whenever they attack.” He sighs. “Their reach seems to have spread. They are growing bolder.”

            My face ices over. “From where do they come?”

            “Dol Guldur, I would imagine,” Aradan says. “And I believe that there are some from Gundabad, too.”

            Gundabad. The same Orcs that have harassed Rhovanion for centuries, that killed my mother, that laid waste to my people on the slopes of the Lonely Mountain. Just the mention of them has been enough to turn my blood to ice in the past, and now that I hear of their boldness, their renewed strength, the fact that they now lurk around my homeland, my body all but goes rigid with dread. I force it down, but I cannot snap my attention away from the tree. My eyes are fell.

            “This is ill news,” I finally manage.

            Aradan merely nods. After a while he lays a quiet hand on my shoulder, leaning a bit closer to me. “We should move on,” he whispers gently.

            The reassuring tone of his voice consoles me enough to unfreeze me, though I sense that he shares my apprehension. Looking up and down the tree trunk one last time, I sigh and peel myself away, my head still reeling.

            Just then the brush begins to crunch and rustle, and Elhadron, who had taken Deroch and gone up ahead of us, appears through the trees.

            “There is a small clearing up ahead,” he says. “A stream runs close to it, one that I trust, and the area seems relatively undisturbed. I would suggest camping there for the night.”

            “It sounds safe enough to me,” Aradan agrees. He then turns to me.

            Still uneasy, I only shrug in response.

            We follow Elhadron and eventually come to the spot he speaks of. The cover of the trees still darkens our surroundings and deepens every shadow, but the sky can be seen through a small hole in the canopy, though clouds block it from our sight for now. It isn't long before Aradan has a fire going, and Elhadron takes all of our water skins with him as he goes to water Deroch. I work on a makeshift spit and skewer some meat from the buck Aradan shot earlier today onto it. Soon enough the fire hisses as what little fat is on the meat drips off and lands in the flames.

            I stare at the embers. The image of the scarred tree sneaks back to the forefront of my mind, and chills shoot up my spine when I imagine the woods around engulfed in flames, entire glens appearing as sinister mirrors of our little campfire. I begin to wonder how close they have actually come to home, and when I begin to weigh the possibilities and the duties that may end up shoved upon me, unlooked for, at my return, a shudder shoots up my spine.

            I do not want for that kind of responsibility. But if it comes down to a situation where I may end up having to act as queen, or even _become_ queen, I know that I will not have a choice. No matter how hard I try, I cannot shove these realizations from my head. As my ruminations take this sinister turn, my face darkens.

            "Are you all right, Caladhiel?" Aradan asks.

            His voice remains a bit casual, but the hint of concern does not go unnoticed. I jump a bit at the sound at first, then pull myself together and force a small smile.

            "Yes, I'm fine. I just..." I sigh, and my voice lowers. "I cannot get the image of those trees out of my mind. And the fact that those monsters grow this close to home is...troubling, to say the least."

            Aradan nods. "I know what you mean," he says, sitting beside me. "This war has scattered my people too, and I have not seen my brothers in what seems to be ages. I too fear for my own."

            "Brothers?" I echo, comforted by the prospect of a change in subject.

            "Well, not in the literal sense," he replies. "But they may as well be." He sighs. "My mother died when I was young, and when my father was killed later, they became the closest thing to family that I had, though they can be hard on me," he adds with a slight laugh.

            "Hard on you?" I say, starting to become amused.

            "Out of all of us, I am the youngest," he replies, "so they have a tendency to underestimate me. That, and many of them would rather me be more of a warrior, though I do what I can. They wish I were stronger. Sometimes, I do too."

            I turn the spit a bit and remain quiet for a second. Then I look up at him.

            "I believe that you have strength, a strength of a different kind," I say. "One of more value. And if they cannot find worth in that, then _they_ are the fools."

            For the first time in what seems ages, my heart lies behind every word. He must pick up on it, for a light comes into his eyes, and he smiles at me. I return it, and for the first time, it is not strained.

            "Nonetheless, I hope to see them again," he says.

            "As you should," I reply. "They are your family. Honestly, I wish I felt the same about mine."

            His brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

            "My father..." I shake my head heave a frustrated sigh. "It isn't that I wish not to see him again. I do. I love him dearly, though it can be hard sometimes. I just..."

            Feeling like a babbling fool, I stop and all but growl at myself.

            "You are afraid, aren't you?" he says.

            "I know not what he will say or do when I return," I reply. "Yes, I am afraid."

            I stare at the ground, twiddling my thumbs a bit. My face burns a little with shame, and I sorely hope I haven't said too much. I absentmindedly turn the spit, and Aradan shuffles a little. After a while he speaks.

            "I know not what the future will hold," he says, sounding a bit unsure at first, "with the king, with the war, with us, but whatever happens-" his voice gains surety "-whatever happens, be it good or ill, know that this darkness cannot endure. And if it does, know that I will be here." He looks me dead in the eye and whispers, "You will not face your fears alone."

            I stare back at him, and the fire dances longingly in my eyes. Though I am taken aback, a powerful warmth takes hold of me. Gratitude, reassurance, and something else...something that I cannot name.

            "You have light in you Aradan," I say. "Hope."

            I rest my head on his shoulder and shut my eyes, and though a small part of me squirms at my forwardness, the rest of me is too hungry for comfort to care.

            "Promise me you that will never lose it," I murmur.

            He hesitates for a second and then slips his arms around me. He smiles a little, and though I get the sense that there is much that he wants to tell me, something in him holds it back. But the only words I yearn to hear now are the ones he speaks.

            "I promise."

            The clouds peel back from the sky, and Menelvagor dances through the holes in the trees. Peace falls quietly over the wood, and I feel the ice and stone around my heart begin to ever so slowly melt and crack. As time passes, I wish more and more by the second that I could seize this moment as iron and force time to freeze, but I find it slipping as oil through my fingers.

            And when a shriek and the distant clank of metal upon metal erupts into the night, the sweet solace shatters as fragile glass.

            My head snaps up and we leap to our feet. Aradan stamps out the flames and fumbles for his sword while I scramble to fasten my quiver around my waist and load my bow. Rapidly we slip through the trees to the stream.

            Deroch seems to have bolted, and Elhadron's swords flicker like flames as he beats his huge adversary back. Just as he goes in for the kill, another leaps down nearly soundlessly behind him and raises a terrifying axe above its head.

            Before it can swing, I fire. The arrow sinks into its mark, and the target howls in pain. Its yellow eyes flash as it begins to advance, but before I can even reload Aradan charges forward and runs it through, taking it to the ground as he does so. As he rips his blade from the carcass, another appears behind him, and I whip another arrow from my quiver and shoot it through the eye before it can reach him. It squeals hideously and flies backwards, crashing into the ground.

            "Scouts!" Aradan says as he gets to his feet.

            "Undoubtedly. Which means the greater force is not far behind!"

            I examine one of the carcasses and catch the black mark of Gundabad painted onto the forehead. Almost sick with apprehension, I fall in between Aradan and Elhadron.

            "Greater force?" I demand.

            Elhadron nods.

            "They will be moving swiftly," Aradan says.

            I catch a familiar and acrid stench, and my stomach drops.

            "I smell smoke!"

            "We've tarried here for too long," Elhadron says. "Let us go!"

            With that he takes off into the brush, Aradan and I quickly following suit. Suddenly he comes charging backwards, and a party of Orcs takes his place, blades draws, eyes fierce, lips snarling. Aradan grabs my arm, and we shoot off in another direction, only to be driven back in the same way. Suddenly the terrible glow of Orc eyes pop out of every shadow, far too numerous for the three of us to take on ourselves.

            We're _surrounded._

            " _Ai, amarth fêg..."_ I all but breathe.

            Slowly they begin to close in, throwing Black Speech insults into the air. Some hold torches, and the red light morphs their features into even more terrible nightmares than they already are. One looks right at me, and a rotting rictus slowly slinks onto its face as it draws a chillingly curved knife across its throat in a threatening motion. My eyes widen, but my nerve does not completely falter for now. We pull back, shoulder to shoulder, and brace for the worst. Some of the trees nearby erupt into flames.

            Just then a voice, loud, clear, and fell, cries out into the night.

            " _Lacho calad! Drego morn!"_

The Valar are watching over us.

White-feathered arrows whistle through the air, hitting their targets with deadly accuracy. A band of Elven scouts leaps from the shadows, cutting into the enemy and throwing their ranks into chaotic confusion. Encouraged by the reinforcements, Elhadron jumps into the fray. Aradan, his back to me and my back to him, cuts down foes as they come, and my bow begins to sing. Torches fall from various grotesque hands, and some of the brush nearby catches fire. Between the flames on the ground and the fury of my people, the remaining Orcs fly back into a wild retreat and then collapse with arrows sticking from their backs, screeching.

            Those from the new force dart around the scene of the battle, stamping out flames or dousing them with water. Others begin gathering arrows that can be salvaged, and others still help the few that are wounded to their feet.

            I turn to face Aradan, and he grabs my shoulders almost frantically.

            "Are you all right?"

            "I am unhurt. I'm fine," I gasp, a little surprised at the break in his usual steadiness. "What about you?"

            "Nothing more than a scratch," he says with a lopsided grin, releasing a sigh of relief and pulling himself back together.

            I begin to catch my breath, and as the action around us slows down, one of the scouts catches my eye. He seems confused for a second, but then his jaw drops in a joyous gape.

            "Lady Caladhiel!" he exclaims. "You're alive!"

            Soon enough the cry is taken up around the throng.

            "Lady Caladhiel! The Ranger found her! She is here! She is alive! Elbereth, be praised!"

            When I see the hope leap into their once dead eyes, my heart cannot help but swell. But a small realization brings back the ice in droves, and my face hardens. Though I dread the answer, a question bubbles out of me.

            "Lord Sereg? Is he here?"

            The question seems to sap the newfound joy from their faces. One of the guards hesitantly steps forward.

            "My lady," he says slowly. "Lord Sereg is dead."


	14. Home

** Fourteen **

_Home_

 

 

 

 

            I awake to the small commotion of a bustling camp and the sharp smell of smoke wafting on a chilled breeze. Scouts slip around on nimble feet running errands, and some converse softly in Sindarin. Being surrounded by the language once again after using nearly nothing but Westron for so long feels incredibly strange, and the more it progresses, the more dread sneaks up over me. Along with it comes confusion.

            Sereg is dead.

            Just at the thought, questions rampage through my mind unchecked. I need to know how it happened, when it happened, who caused it. If our Enemy could take down one so strong, so brutal in combat, then I decide that I would rather not know what else they are capable of. I strain to try and pick up anything from the low conversations that surround me, but to no avail. I smell food - I know I must eat something, but my stomach ties up in knots at the thought - and suddenly the smell is no longer as tantalizing. Then I notice that the blankets carry some extra weight, more than they did last night, and I partially sit up to investigate.

            On top of my makeshift bed of foliage and whatever else the guards could scrounge up lies a heavy cloak of weather-beaten grey, threadbare and faded in some places and frayed at the ends, smelling of a distinct concoction of leather, earth, and pipe-smoke. A bit confused, I roll over on my stomach and find Aradan, his back propped up against a nearby tree and his legs crossed, sharpening his old dagger with a small stone.

            His cloak is missing.

            "Aren't you cold?" I say.

            He nonchalantly shakes his head, gives me a quick smile, and then turns back to his work. I don't miss the goosebumps on his arm, the icy cloud of his breath, or the slight tremor in his hand, and I give him a look.

            "Are you sure?"

            He almost laughs. "I'm fine!"

            I cock an eyebrow.

            "Honestly!" he insists.

            Sighing, I sit up, roll the cloak up in a ball, and throw it at him as hard as I can.

            "You, _melloneg,_ are a terrible liar," I say.

            He chuckles, and I smile a bit.

            "However, you do have my thanks," I continue.

            He flashes me another grin and nods, running the stone down the blade a few more times before he stops again.

            "We aren't far from the palace, according to the captain of the guard," he says. "You'll be home and safe again soon."

            I know he only tries to reassure me, but I find no comfort in his words. Neither do I miss the hint of sadness that hides in his voice. I force a smile, though I know that by now he has most assuredly learned to see through them. For the first time in my life, I find myself actually _glad_ that someone can. Especially with what I am about to face.

            It isn’t long before what little I can force myself to eat sits in my stomach and camp is broken. Elhadron slips to the front of the pack, and, though I would prefer to walk, when Aradan pulls me up behind him on Deroch, I don’t protest. Eventually the goo of spider webs upon the trees becomes less thick, and the charring on the trunks fades away. Finally the thickets themselves give way, parting to reveal a sight that causes my heart to just about stop.

            The stone walls of the palace tower coldly before me. The stream that once flowed freely beneath the small bridge in front of the gates seems to creep along at only half the pace that it once did. Though I know them to be fully inhabited, the guard posts seem completely deserted. Attempting, most likely in vain, to hide myself, I throw up my hood and lean into Aradan as much as I can, hoping that the greens and grays of our clothing will morph into one large mass in the saddle. Soon enough the guard captain’s voice breaks the suffocating silence, and the gates come whining open. Once our entourage is safely inside, the doors rapidly slam shut, their magic still in tact. The bang causes my very marrow to quiver.

            Without a word I slip from Deroch’s back, and one of the guards soundlessly leads him away. Quickly the troop disperses, leaving only Elhadron, Aradan, and me in the hall. A few seconds pass, then I break the silence, though I can barely choke the words out.

            “Where is my father?”

            Elhadron begins to speak, but as he doesn’t say the words I look for, I cut him off.

            “Take me to him. Now.”

            Neither of them budge.

            “Before I lose my nerve. Please!” My voice raises, though it still shakes.

            Aradan and Elhadron exchange glances, but Elhadron slowly begins to nod. He strides forward, and Aradan slips an arm around my shoulders as we follow in tow. We keep to the shadows; I purposely slink through the deepest of them. There will be no fanfare concerning my return until the proper time. Earlier today I made that clear to the warriors that rescued us; now, to keep myself from blowing that, I fight to stay out of sight until we reach the throne room. The king is not there; we slip through the dark halls until we reach my father’s chambers. Still I have not seen a soul. I find that ghastly.

            Finally I hear two sets of footsteps: one stately and aloof; the other, light and hurried. Aradan and I slip into a deeper shadow while Elhadron approaches the duo that rounds the corner.

            Fear courses through me relentlessly, but when my eyes meet Galion’s face, I cannot help but smile a little. Next to him stands Idhrenion, long time advisor to the king, uptight and clipped as ever. Elhadron takes no time before he’s on to business.

            “Where is the king?”

            “He is beyond, my lord,” Galion replies, gesticulating to a heavy set of ornately carved doors. “And in a rather foul mood, I may add.”

            I tense at his words and a sigh hisses out between my teeth. Aradan doesn’t say a word; he merely draws me to him, which I find myself thankful for.

            “I need an audience with him,” Elhadron continues.

            “With respect, my lord, I-“

            “This is urgent, Galion,” Elhadron persists.

            “As Galion has tried to tell you, he will see no one,” Idhrenion says rather sourly.

            I work up my courage and slip from the shadows.

            “He _will_ see me,” I reply icily, slowly taking my hood down.

            Idhrenion’s eyes bug, and Galion gapes joyously.

            “My lady!” Idhrenion stammers, throwing together the closest thing to a bow that he can in his shocked state.

            I would find the break in his perpetual rigidity extremely funny if I was in my right mind, and I catch Aradan fighting with everything he has to stifle a laugh.

            “Lady Caladhiel!” Galion says at the same time. “It gives me great joy to see you alive!”

            My smile, though tiny, is genuine, but as quickly as it came, it fades away.

            “I must speak to my father.” My eyes bore straight into Idhrenion’s soul. “Now.”

            Without a word he, Elhadron, and Galion move to open the doors.

            Aradan leans closer to me. “I will go with you.”

            I turn to face him, a sad and grateful smile barely visible on my lips.

            “You’ve done so much for me, so much that I do not deserve,” I whisper, “but this is something I must do myself.” I sigh. “I know not what my father will do.”

            “He loves you, though he may not always show it,” Aradan says. He lays his gentle hands on my upper arms. “He will be overjoyed. I know it.”

            I start to shake. “I hope you’re right.”

            “My lady,” Idhrenion mutters.

            Aradan gives me a reassuring smile. “I will be right here when you return.”

            Unable to restrain myself, I throw my arms around his neck.

            “ _Av-‘osto_ ,” he whispers in my ear.

            I peel myself away from him, and slowly, forcing my terror into one tiny little ball in my heart, I step forward and advance into my father’s chambers. The doors bang shut behind me, cutting me off from any chance of changing my mind. Now there is nowhere to go but forward. Mustering up even more nerve, I slip though the shadows. When I see him, I stop dead.

            _Ada’s_ back is turned to me; his once proud stature seems crumpled. He sits with his unusually unkempt head in one hand and a half-empty wine flask in the other. I can feel the tension boiling off of him from my side of the room, and his somewhat disheveled state sends nervous, nauseous heat through my limbs and causes my heart to nearly explode with dread. I begin to wonder if he’s noticed me, but when an unseen spell breaks and he shuffles, that question inside me is abruptly answered.

            “Who goes there?” he growls. Nearly all of his former strength is sapped from his voice.

            Though I long to speak, my lips seem sewn shut.

            “Who goes there?!” he repeats, louder and fouler this time.

            I take a few steps forward, imploring for words that will not come to surface. His rage snaps.

            “ _Speak!”_ he roars, slamming his fist into the sturdy table in front of him.

            Now visibly trembling, I jump, viciously fighting to keep the tears that have began to surface from escaping. I swallow hard.

            _“Ada…”_ I whimper.

            Suddenly his head snaps up and he turns around. When he sees me, his eyes pop. I can see the struggle in his face to withhold his emotions. Anger, sadness, _relief,_ mingle in his gaze. I cannot even find it in myself to look at him, and my head droops. Barely able to keep himself together, he stands and makes his way over to me. My eyes remain glued to my feet. When he lays an unexpectedly gentle hand on my shoulder, I jump again. His brow furrows with concern, and he lifts my face up on the crook of his finger. At that moment I, unlike my father, can no longer restrain my tears.

            _“Goheno nin, Ada!”_ I cry, bursting into sobs.

            I fully expect him to be angry, to turn away from me and give me what I deserve in this moment. To my shock, he reaches out and pulls me into an embrace that nearly crushes me. Because of that, I weep all the harder, finally letting out what I’ve held back around him for many long years. I cling to him like moss to a rock.

            “You’re alive,” he says, his deep voice barely steady. “You’re alive, thank the Valar!”


	15. Forgiveness

** Fifteen **

_Forgiveness_

 

 

 

 

            Somehow I manage to calm myself relatively quickly. Though my eyes remain very much wet, I catch my breath and stop the sobs. I slowly look back up at my father; he wipes the tears from my face as best he can, though they brim in his own eyes. He then pulls me back into his arms, and I throw mine around his neck.

            Over the years, and in spite all that we have gone through, one thing has never changed: My father’s embrace is the place that I have always felt the safest, no matter what. Today I find that it still is, in spite of the fear that gnaws at my heart for the rapidly coming conversation.

            “Why did you _ever_ run, you fool?” he finally says. “Why did you ever leave?”

            A note of terrible pain rings though his voice. He feigns anger in an attempt to conceal it. I, however, manage to see right through it.

            “I believed you to know the dangers of this world better!” he continues, his voice at a hiss. He seizes my shoulders. “I thought they had taken you, my daughter. I thought you dead!”

            My bottom lip quivering, I shake my head and lay quiet hands on his arms. “I am not dead, _Ada._ I’m fine.” My head falls to his chest and a few tears slide down my cheeks. “But you’re right; I am a fool.” I hold onto him for dearest life. “I am such a fool!”

            I begin to weep again, and _Ada_ merely pulls me to him. I fight to form the explanation he craves.

            “I didn’t know what else to do!” I know the phrase to be wildly insufficient, but it’s all I can think of in my fragile state. “I was so afraid…”

            “Of what, child?”

His voice hasn’t been this gentle in years. It gives me a bit of courage, though I still can barely find words.

“Sereg…” I finally say. “I could not marry him. I just couldn’t.”

Pity slides in behind his eyes. “Why didn’t you just tell me—?”

“I knew not what you would do!” I continue hurriedly. “I wanted to confront Sereg, but I was terrified of him. I never could predict what he would do, and you _know_ his temper, _Ada_ —!”

He merely puts his fingers to my lips to silence me.

“I never would have forced you into any place where your heart did not lie,” he says. “The one whom you chose to wed is your choice and yours alone. _That_ is the way of our people, Caladhiel. You know that.”

I begin to nod.

“And you also know that had Sereg so much as laid a finger on you, I would have made him regret it.”

A small, pained smile paints itself onto my face. Then a terrible question burns on my tongue. Though my mouth feels as if it is being sewn shut, I sigh and force it out amid fresh tears.

“He died searching for me, didn’t he?”

_Ada_ nods. “He thought you dead. He didn’t believe the Ranger’s claims that you and Esgalion were one and the same, and because I had personally tasked the boy with finding you, Sereg blamed him for your death and decided to do what he believed Aradan could not. He set out with a small force of hunters and rode out to personally punish the Orcs for defiling you and to recover any trace of you he found if he could. He was killed by their leader.”

I hang my head.

“Do not blame yourself, Caladhiel,” _Ada_ soothes. “Sereg’s own foolishness was his undoing. He was doomed from the start; I tried to tell him so, but he would not listen. Very few of his men survived.”

“It was _my_ act of passion that inspired his,” I counter. “Tell me what you will, _Ada,_ but Sereg’s blood is on my hands.” I pause. “Who is their leader?”

“He is an Orc of Gundabad,” _Ada_ replies. “He is called Ashuruk. We believe he may be a relative of Bolg, but we are certain of nothing. It is he that burns the forest, along with the filth from Dol Guldur.”

“We ran into a party of Orcs on our way home,” I say. “We all would have perished had it not been for Castien’s men. Everything was up in flames.”

His brow furrows. “How far away?”

“I am not sure,” I say. “But the skirmish took place last night, so it could not have been far.”

His voice is stone. “Are you hurt?”

“No, _Ada,_ ” I reply. “My arrows fly true. And Aradan cut down anything that got too close to me.” I begin to smile, and my voice takes on a lighter tone, though I realize it not. “He fights well. Better than he gives himself credit for. I owe him my life.”

By the time I realize what I’m doing, I find myself staring at my feet, a small and ridiculous smile whispering on my face. Immediately I whip myself back into a more serious composure, straightening my posture and snapping my eyes straight out in front of me.

“He is to be commended,” I add hurriedly, turning away from my father.

“He will be rewarded for his efforts, that is assured,” _Ada_ says. “No one should ever have doubted him for a second.”

I turn back around and smile. “Just telling him that will be reward enough.”

A silence passes between us, less comfortable than some. Finally _Ada_ breaks it.

“We remember Sereg tonight,” he says. “Tomorrow, we celebrate your return.”

“What is there to celebrate?” I mutter. My head droops. “I insulted all of you.”

He approaches me and lays his hands on my shoulders. “But you are alive, and you have returned. What you did was foolish, but I have found that holding onto the past can be much more painful than letting it go. You have my forgiveness.”

But do I have his trust?

His eyes won’t tell me. I assume that it is something I must work a little harder for. I force the question back.

“Thank you,” I merely say.

“You look weary,” he replies. “Go and rest awhile.”

I find his words to be slightly hypocritical; I’ve never seen him in such an exhausted state since the first few days after my mother’s death. Concern fuels my words.

“Promise me that you will do the same?” I say, laying my hands on his arms and looking straight into his eyes for the first time since my return.

He merely nods. Though he says nothing, I get the feeling that it will be the first time he has really been able to do so in awhile. I catch something: a light in his eye, however dull. I know I haven’t seen it in ages; then, it hits me as to just what it is.

The tiniest sliver of hope.

Slowly I turn away and slip from the room. His gaze doesn’t leave me, and I know that there is much that he still wishes to tell me, though he still holds it back. Nevertheless, my heart carries a much lighter load, and I lift a silent but heartfelt prayer of thanks to Illúvatar himself as I quickly make my way to the library.

Murmurs follow everywhere in my wake; a few joyous greetings fly out to me, which I return as gracefully as I can manage. Finally I slip into the solace and safety of the library. I let my hair down breathe deeply; the familiar smell of hundreds of old books envelops my senses, and I allow myself a small smile before marching right to the volume I want. Obviously it hasn’t been touched since I last used it, and I take it from the shelf with the same care that I always do. I tuck the little book under my arm and begin to walk away, when someone speaks.

“I didn’t take you for one to be fond of books.”

I turn and find Aradan standing behind me. I grin.

“Nor I you,” I say, watching him as he scans the shelves.

He laughs a little. “My ‘brothers’ give me a hard time for it.”

I chuckle. A few seconds pass in silence.

“How did it go with the king?” he finally asks, taking a few steps towards me.

“Well, he didn’t kill me,” I quip lightheartedly.

“Always a good sign.” Aradan grins.

We both laugh a little.

“Honestly, I was afraid for you for a moment there,” he says. “It does me good to hear that you came to an understanding.”

I nod. “I have his forgiveness,” I say. “He told me that himself.”

“I am happy for you.” A genuine smile stretches across his face.

“Thank you,” I reply.

My voice drops to a murmur, and I step closer to him.

“I owe all of it to you.”

He grins. I can see him searching for something to say in his eyes, and he runs his hand through his messy, dark hair. Smiling myself, I stare at my feet until he speaks.

“What book do you have?”

I slide it out from under my arm. “I don’t know the title. My mother would read it to me when I was small. It was one of her favorites, and now it is one of mine.” I sigh. “I read parts of it, and to this day, I can still hear her voice reading it to me.”

“And if you close your eyes, it’s almost as if she’s there in the room with you?”

His words rip me from the cover. Nodding, I gaze up at him.

“What’s in it?”

“Many stories,” I say, making my way over to a small table.

He slips up closely behind me, and I soak in his presence a great deal more than I probably should.

“The forging of the Silmarils, the chaining of Melkor, Menelvagor…”

I set the book down, and it opens up to a particularly well-worn place in the text. But when I see what it is, my heart all but stops.

“The lay of Beren and Lúthien…”

            For a while, we both stare at the pages, almost dumfounded. Then finally we pull ourselves away. Our eyes meet and lock. He begins to move even closer to me, and for the first time, I don’t shy away. But just as he reaches for me, the connection shatters.

            “I-I have to go,” I stammer quickly, scooping up the little book into my arms. “I need to rest; you should, too. Sereg’s funeral is tonight. King Thranduil will wish both of us there.”

            Recoiling a little, he only nods. I force a quick smile and scurry to my chambers. Shutting the door behind me, I sit on the bed, setting the book in my lap.

            It opens to the same place.

            Mysteriously saddened, I tenderly run my thumb over the words and sigh, staring at the pages for I don’t know how long.


	16. Forbidden

** Sixteen **

_Forbidden_

 

 

 

            The only light to touch our way flickers from the heavy torches that line our dismal procession. Dark, heavy skirts swallow my footsteps, and I keep my head down underneath the hood of my gown as I lean on my father’s arm. My opposite hand remains closed in a fist. A short sword lightly collides with my leg with every step, a solid reminder of the danger we may face if we tarry too long. And of the danger that took the one that lies unmoving on the litter up ahead.

            Finally we emerge from the depths of the palace. The sounds of the night immediately slink into our ears; the moon barely peeks through the thick canopy of trees. Somberly we move on, the soft crunch of feet on foliage and the occasional sob the only sounds to accompany us. When we reach a small glen where a deep hole and a collection of large stones lie waiting, we stop.

            Rites are recited, final goodbyes given, words that I have not heard since my mother’s death. I do not listen to them. Erect and cold, a feminine mirror of my father, I merely stare straight ahead. My face might as well be carven stone. I ache over my friend’s passing, but thinking of what he put me through, whether he knew what he did at the time or not, somewhat lessens the sting.

            Those bearing the litter slowly lower Sereg into the ground, and a fresh wave of sorrow washes over the throng. Sobs erupt from various places, especially from the family of the slain and a pretty group of young _elleth_ , but though my voice doesn’t ring with them, I do not escape the confusion that thrashes within all of us towards this dark intruder called death. Tears fall like rain; even those hardened in the face of battle have the telltale wet shine glistening on their cheeks. They now step forward, one by one, and begin to lay the stones on the fresh grave. I release my father; he steps forward and mirrors everyone else, whispering something about Sereg finding peace after death. Then a guard with a torch steps forward, and a hot flame whooshes up at the foot of the grave, contained in a pit of its own. He nods to me and backs up as I approach.

A few puzzled looks drift my way. They expect she who lost the one that supposedly held her heart in the palm of his hand to be brought to her knees by grief’s savage weight.

            But I don’t shed a tear.

            Instead, my eyes scan the small crowd, searching for the one dark head in a sea of silvery-gold. When I finally find him, a pained and lopsided smile barely whispers across his face to reassure me. I sigh, and my fisted hand slowly comes out in front of me and opens.

            Two silver rings, one much smaller than the other, gleam in my open palm. I step forward and throw them into the belching flames as I speak.

            “I destroy the tokens of our love, and we will not marry _.”_

The phrase spikes the sorrow of nearly everyone present, but though my heart shares their pain, something else washes over me as the Sindarin slips from my lips.

            Relief.

            Calculatedly I add a stone to the pile on top of the grave and return to my father’s side. He lays a quiet hand on my shoulder, though his eyes are also dry. After a few more mentions of Mandos and one final prayer, the crowd begins to move away. Eventually I find myself standing alone at the graveside. Though I’m well aware of my potential vulnerability, I remain glued to the spot. Light footsteps approach from behind me, and now Aradan stands at my side, one hand resting idly on the hilt of his sword. Night’s eerie chorus fills the silence; then, he breaks it.

            “I’m so sorry.”

            I give him a tiny smile.

            “I wish I could have stopped him,” he continues.

            “Oh, Aradan,” I whisper. “Sereg’s death has nothing to do with you.” I turn back to the flames, and the heat threatens to scald me, even in the cold of this winter night. “The fault is mine.”

            For the first time tonight, tears burn at the back of my eyes, icy and fell. I take a step towards the grave, and my fingers brush the stones. Aradan stays back. He shuffles and sighs, and I know that what he prepares to say will not be easy.

            “You loved him…didn’t you?”

            His voice is dead.

            I heave a shaky sigh. “He was my friend.” My eyes flash and bitterness twists my face. “But I did not love him. I never did.” My voice thickens dramatically, and a few angry tears pop out onto my cheeks. “I should have just _told_ him. Then he would not have needlessly died for a lie.”

            Aradan takes a few steps towards me. I hear him move to touch me, but for some reason he doesn’t. I find myself yearning for him to.

            “We cannot linger here,” he says instead. “It could be dangerous.”

            I nod. He offers his arm, and I take it, leaning into it rather heavily even after the doors bang shut behind us. We slip into the crowd. Some strange looks and a few whispers follow in our wake. They cling to me even into the next day, when I enter into the great hall yet again, but this time dressed for a festival and on my father’s arm. Everyone stands as we glide to a place where all can see us. The king holds up his hand, and everything goes silent.

            “These bitter days have burdened us with a great darkness,” he says, “but even in the bleakest night, a light can sometimes break through. And this—” he turns to me “—is one of those times. The safe return of my daughter.”

            A few cheers bounce off the walls, and the room erupts into applause and excitement. I look towards the front of the crowd and catch Aradan standing next to Elhadron and his wife. He gives me a wink and a lopsided smile. I grin back at him.

            “All of this,” my father continues, “we owe to our brave friend from Eriador. Know that he will be rewarded richly for his efforts. He need only name what he would claim, and I will give it to him.” He looks right at Aradan. “It’s the least I can do to repay so great a debt.”

            Aradan smiles and nods as cordially as he can manage, but I don’t miss the shock and excitement hiding in his grey eyes. I smile at him again. Then my father turns to me.

            “Do you have anything to say?”

            I turn towards the crowd. “Galion!”

            The butler quickly appears. “Yes, my lady?”

            I grin. “Break out the wine.”

            Galion laughs. “Indeed you are your father’s child, my lady.” He then hurries off as the rest of the crowd breaks into cheers and song.

I slip into the crowd. The more I mingle with them, the more I realize that the people seem to be catching the same thing that has finally began to return to their king, if only infinitesimally.

            Hope.

            And as the festivities wear on, that feeling only seems to grow. After greeting yet another group of overjoyed subjects and nobles, I slip away from the great hall to a quieter place, desperately needing a little moment to myself. Music and laughter still float into my ears from the large, thrown-open doors, sounds that I have not heard in what seems to be many a moon. I breathe it in and, for now, I actually feel incredibly content. And when a familiar set of footsteps slips behind me, I become even happier.  

            “They seem pleased to have you back,” Aradan says, falling into place beside me.

            “I am blessed, that much is certain,” I reply with a small smile. “Most have reacted fairly well. There is some bitterness from Sereg’s family, but that is to be expected.”

            Aradan nods. Then he begins to chuckle.

            “Idhrenion took it _marvelously_ ,” he quips.

            I grin as the memory stumbles to the forefront of my mind. “That he did. I have never seen him like that before. Ever.”

            Aradan’s grin takes on a bit of a cheekier flavor

“Oh, my _lady_!” he says, snapping into a nearly perfect replica of Idhrenion’s fumbling attempt at propriety. Then I do something that I have not done for an age.

            I laugh. Out loud.

            And as unceremonious as it is, it feels incredible.

            Aradan too bursts into laughter, and we stay that way for how long, we know not. As our laughter dies down, the music drifting in from the main hall swells. Though the song sends a pang of discomfort through me at first, eventually I begin to slightly sway to the familiar melody, and Aradan hums ever so softly along.

            The last time I had heard it, it was he that sang it in the dark loneliness of the forest.

            … _Again she fled, but swift he came_

_Tinúviel! Tinúviel…!_

I look up from my feet to catch him staring straight at me. He quickly turns away and grins rather sheepishly.

            “They play that song often here,” I say. “My mother loved it. My father now loves it because she loved it. It reminds him of her. And I love it because…”

            I catch myself beginning to ramble, and my voice trails off.

            He takes a step closer to me. “Because?”

            “Partially because of my mother. And partially for other reasons.” My voice drops to a murmur, and my eyes slip up to his. “Reasons that even I don’t really know.”

Our eyes lock for a while, but then a blush suddenly burns my cheeks. Hoping that I can hide it in time, I quickly turn my back to him, though I don’t step away from him. He hesitates for a second, but then he steps up behind me, slowly slips his arms around my waist, and pulls me to him. I nearly immediately melt into him, but by the time I fully realize it, it’s too late to go back. Sighing, I rest my head against his chest, and my eyes close. My attention wanders back to the song as we begin to softly rock to the flowing meter.

…Tinúviel the elven-fair,  
Immortal maiden elven-wise,  
About him cast her shadowy hair  
And arms like silver glimmering… 

Love fell upon her those many years ago. The lyric calls it “doom.” And it is not until now that I understand why.

I should run, rip away from him, even scold him for daring to do anything like this. But I can’t. The longer I stay, the more I realize that I never could. More importantly, that I’d never want to. I could stay here, knowing that I shouldn’t and yet still completely at peace, and let myself fall until the world’s very ending.

Here in Aradan’s arms.

I find myself wondering, if the stone ceiling of the palace and the thick canopy of trees did not block our eyes from the sky, if we would find Menelvagor shining down upon us, drenching us in its light and in the hope that it stands for. Part of me hopes that we would. The song glides into the final phrases of its last stanza.

Only to be savagely cut short by a huge commotion raging towards the front gate.

My head immediately snaps up. Aradan’s grip on me tightens as his head whips around, looking for the source of the disturbance. When a few grotesque shrieks echo in the caverns, it’s unmistakable.

“Orcs!” Aradan exclaims, sounding fairly shocked and even a little angry. He lets me go and quickly draws his sword. “And they are coming quickly!” He turns to me. “Get somewhere safe. Go deeper into the palace—I doubt they will get that far. Go!”

I give him a look.

“Please,” he whispers, his voice almost pleading as he pushes a small piece of hair out of my face, “don’t fight me. Go!”

Reluctantly I obey him. The farther back I go, the more one thought echoes in my mind:

I will not leave him to fight by himself. I will not lose him. Not again.

I begin to sprint to my chambers. Once I get there, I latch the door behind me and throw off the shimmering pale green gown. I replace it with a set of light leather armor, my hunting gear. After buckling my quiver, a few throwing knives, and my short sword around my waist, I dart back towards where we last were, barreling past guards and completely ignoring their demands that I get back to safety as I do so. I round the corner, finding Aradan locked in combat with a large Orc while another one fixes to take him out from behind. An arrow leaps into my hand, and just as the monster raises its scimitar above its head, I fire. The arrow goes straight through its neck.

Aradan whips around just as the Orc falls to the ground. When he sees me standing behind it, bow still poised, a new protectiveness flashes in his eyes, but a wide grin cracks across his face.

“How did I know that you wouldn’t listen to me?”

“If I had, you would be dead,” I fire back.

He grins again and leaps back into the fray as a few more Orcs come barreling around the corner. Arrow after arrow flies from my bow, and I find a secret pride in the fact that I haven’t even slightly missed my mark once. But that feeling rapidly breaks into a new terror when I reach down and my hand closes over air. As I scramble for a knife, an Orc charges at me, and just before I can fully reset, it raises a terribly curved sword over its head, squawking. I fully expect the sting of a nasty blow, but a force from the side shoves me out of the way. I hit the ground hard and hear a deep and pained scream, followed by a few more grotesque shrieks. Guards fly around the corner, effectively running the rest of the enemy off.

I look up and find my assailant dead and bloodied on the floor. Aradan stumbles backwards, his own blood quickly filling an open slash in his tunic. I scramble to my feet and catch him just before he falls, slinging his arm around my shoulders and helping him towards the healer’s halls as quickly as I can. When we finally reach it, I sit him down, rapidly cut his shirt the rest of the way off, prop him up on some pillows, and ball the shirt up. I then use it to apply pressure to the wound to stop the bleeding.

“It isn’t very deep,” I say. “You’ll be all right.”

He winces, but he gives me a nod. Then he looks around the room, the same one where we met, and grins.

“Just like old times.”

The memories of looking after him, putting him back together and listening to the tales of the lands beyond the mountains resurface, and I laugh softly. A few seconds pass, then I look him dead in the eye.

“Thank you,” I say.

His eyes soften, and another lopsided smile sneaks onto his face. After a while, I take the pressure off the wound, disinfect it, and begin to stitch it up, humming a soft incantation to myself. He winces at first, but the longer the song goes, the more his face relaxes.

“I still will never understand it,” he finally says. “How you can merely sing and take away the pain.”

I smile. “As I have told you, it is the way of our people. Surely you saw it during your days in Imladris.”

“I never had a need to be healed in Imladris,” he replies.

“Because you never acted like a fool in Imladris?” I quip.

He laughs softly. “Because there was nothing in Imladris that could turn me into such a fool.”

I chuckle at first, but when I catch his meaning, my laughter fades and my work momentarily freezes in its tracks. My face becomes more serious, but try as I might, I cannot force the deep light of fondness out of my eyes, which suddenly terrifies me. Eventually I find it within myself to continue, and I finish with another ointment and clean cloths in silence.

“Sit up,” I say.

With a small effort, he does so, and I go about wrapping a bandage around the wound. I fumble for a clasping pin.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

I give him a small smile in response, and as I slide the pin on, my hand lingers on his chest for a second too long, though I don’t even realize it until he’s taken it in his. We almost remain frozen in a trace for what seems like ages.

Then harsh reality shatters the spell in all but spits in our faces.

Aradan exhales hard.

“What are we doing?”

Though he obviously fights to hide it, I don’t at all miss the terrible pain laced throughout his tone.

My breath catches in my throat, but I know I can’t live in a dream forever.

“You’re right,” I whisper, slowly and gently sliding my hand from his. “You’re absolutely right.” Awkwardly I sigh and stand up. “I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t be,” he stammers. “We are both to blame.”

He can’t even look me in the eye, and I find that I now have trouble doing the same. Other wounded begin to trickle into the hall, and I begin to retreat, though everything inside me screams against it.

“Get some rest,” I say, forcing a tight and pained smile. “You’ll be better on the morrow.”

He gives me a quick nod, though he stares at his feet. I return it and scurry away, back to the safety and solitude of my own chamber before my emotions can catch up with me.

Between the two of us, I judge, Aradan has always been the wiser, so his being the first to finally remember the harsh truth shouldn’t shock me. But when I recall his nearness, picture his smile, remember how it felt to be in his arms, it only adds to the pain. Tears fill my eyes, though I do know him to be right.

Our destinies are too different. Our differences are too great.

No matter how much our hearts cry for it, we could never be.


	17. Broken

** Seventeen **

_Broken_

 

 

 

            Muted commotion bubbles through the healers’ halls. Three days have passed since the attack, and though the screams of the wounded no longer tear open the air, many still need tending. I slip through the many rows of beds, a few phials of strong spirits in my hands, keeping my head down and my mind as focused as I can manage. Finally I reach a corner, and when I turn it, I slow my pace as I approach the bedside.

            Linneth, a senior healer and the wife of Elhadron, smiles gratefully and gracefully as I hand her the phials. She then begins to make a fresh dressing, and her patient, the captain of the guard, sits up a bit straighter.

            “How does it feel?” I inquire, motioning to the neat row of black stitches across his forehead.

            “It no longer throbs,” Castien replies. His usual mischievous spark twinkles in his eye, and he grins. “It is a lovely mark, is it not?”

            I smile, and Linneth rolls her eyes good-naturedly. When Castien’s face darkens, our mirth fades.

            “I still cannot make sense of it, my lady,” he says. “This recent move of our Enemy. They have grown bold indeed, to directly attack the palace so openly, and with such ferocity this time. I heard tell that we managed to capture one of them, but whether or not we will get any information from it is uncertain.”

            “Did the beasts set the wood ablaze again?” I ask gravely.

            Castien nods. “That is what angers me the most: their blatant disregard for life. I am not alone in that thinking, either. Many are furious, including King Thranduil, as it would seem. I would hope that this finally will draw him into making a decisive move.”

            “Was Ashuruk among them?” I question.

            “I saw him not,” Castien says, “but I believe that Elhadron may have.”

            Linneth shudders as she begins to apply the dressing and wrap Castien’s head once more. Castien turns to her.

            “And where _did_ your husband wander off to?”

            Linneth smiles fondly. “With as much work that needs to be done, there is no telling. Last I saw him, he was with the Dúnadan, whose name, for some reason, has slipped from my memory.”

            “Aradan,” I supply. A pang of discomfiture shoots through me, and my voice is barely audible.

            “Ah, yes,” Linneth says, reaching for a clasping pin. “I am surprised that you are not the one tending to him, my lady.”

            Sharp sadness begins to eat away at me. More than anything I desire to see Aradan, if only to lay eyes on him, but in spite of my yearnings, I deem distance to be wise.

Linneth’s eyes shine. “You seem very fond of each other.”

            “The immediate threat of death forges strong bonds,” I mutter quickly. My uneasiness grows with my other conflicting emotions, and I sincerely hope that the words can conceal it.

            “Indeed,” Castien concurs. “I saw him take that blow in your stead. His heart is indeed gallant and kind.”

            I merely avoid both of their gazes.

            Linneth pins the bandage fast. “I should be able to remove the stitches tomorrow,” she says, “but we will watch and see. Is there aught else which you need?”

            “Naught that I can think of,” Castien replies. He grins. “You have my thanks.”

            She nods cordially and then turns to me.

            “I go to find Elhadron,” she says. “If you would seek out others that need to have their dressings replaced, I would greatly appreciate it, my lady.”

            I nod, and we go our separate ways. I tackle my work with little cheer; much weighs heavily on my mind, and when I reach a certain wing of the halls, I grow all the gloomier.

            In spite of that, I cannot help the bittersweet joy that rushes through me when I catch his eye.

            He sits upright, carving into some small object in his hand. He gives me a weak, lopsided smile, and I return it. I know that boredom must plague him, and it relieves me greatly to know that someone, probably Elhadron, had the foresight to supply him with something to curb it with. Otherwise, he would grow restless, overexert himself, and pop the stitches loose, a nasty habit I constantly had to counter in our first days together—

            Almost angrily I force the memories to a screeching halt. Furiously I turn back to my work, nearly overloading myself as the next few days roll along to keep my emotions back. Every time I see him, Aradan continues to chisel away at the little object, and I begin to wonder what exactly it is he crafts. Eventually those less grievously wounded, including Aradan and Castien, are released, and my help is no longer needed. I elect to slip away somewhere quiet and try to read, or to go to the training hall to better work on my aim with both bow and knife, but Galion’s call stops me short. He gives me a quick bow.

            “The king requests your presence,” he says. “It seems to be a matter of great importance.”

            Thanking him, I nod and then make my way to the throne room, where I find my father, Idhrenion, Elhadron, Castien, and a few other lords and generals surrounding a map on a large table. It seems to be a gathering of some military importance, something that I have taken a very small part in only once, which triggers a question.

            Why does my father need me?

            Slight discomfort twinges through me when I catch Aradan’s eye. Nevertheless, I continue cordially forward and take my place beside my father.

            “The Enemy’s recent attack is cause for great concern.” His voice is frozen silk. “And their audacity gives me reason to believe that their numbers are greater than we initially thought.” He turns to Castien. “What news?”

            “Our scouts report a recent massing of Orcs in Dol Guldur,” Castien says. “Though many now march on Lothlórien, their great force swells more and more by the day.”

“This leader from Gundabad has given them a new fervor, my lord,” another lord adds. “A dangerous fervor. We can no longer sit idle.”

“No,” _Ada_ says. “We cannot. Which is why I called all of you here.” He paces to the other side of the room. “Their numbers are indeed great, but I deem ours to be greater still.” He makes his way back to the map and leans on the table as he speaks. “We march on Dol Guldur as quickly as circumstances will allow us. Lord Sereg’s forces I now place under your command, Elhadron, for I know you will lead them well.”

Elhadron merely nods.

“With respect, my lord,” Idhrenion says, obviously measuring his words, “an immediate assault such as this could prove perilous—”

“You will have the element of surprise on your side,” Aradan counters. “They will not expect an open attack.”

The saddened look in his eyes immediately tells me that he hides something; from whom, I cannot tell. I decide to let it pass.

“Yes.” King Thranduil gives Aradan a look of approval. “Now is our time to strike. A smaller force will be left behind in case the Orcs decide to attack us here once more, mainly consisting of Castien’s men. And until I return, Caladhiel will rule in my stead.”

My heart drops to my toes. Still, I manage to keep my composure.

Idhrenion’s mouth falls open, but one sharp look from my father kills the objection that dances on his tongue.

“If all goes well, we will not be gone for long,” he says, staring Idhrenion into submission, “and you will stay behind to offer the princess what counsel you can.”

Though I know him to most likely be angered, Idhrenion conceals it well. I, for one, feel a smug satisfaction begin to creep up, though it would be stronger if it weren’t for the overwhelming enormity of my coming responsibilities.

“How quickly can our forces be assembled?” my father says.

“Two days,” one of the generals replies.

“Then we march for Dol Guldur at dawn on the third,” the king replies decisively. “That concludes matters. You are all dismissed.”

The stately group begins to file from the room, talking back and forth between each other and beginning the first breaths of preparation for the operation. I lag behind towards the back, still trying to process the news. Aradan remains glued to the spot. My father turns to him, and they speak together in low tones. The only snippet to meet my ears freezes me in my tracks.

“Your greatest task has been accomplished, so should you wish to return to your people, I will not stand in your way…”

I steal a sharp glance over my shoulder. Aradan stands next to the king, solemnly nodding. He then looks up, and our eyes meet and lock. Obviously he fights to feign some sort of relief, but all I see in his eyes is an overwhelming sadness. He gives me a knowing smile that speaks volumes, and I turn and leave, just as the quiet exchange resumes itself. Once out of their sight, my pace quickens.

He cannot be leaving. Not now when the stakes are highest. Not now when I need him so.

Once again I force my thoughts into submission. I know not the full context, I tell myself. I cannot assume anything. And I certainly cannot see so loyal a man abandoning us at so crucial a time.

Still, I cannot force the possibility from my head.

And if the reports from the West are true, he will be worried beyond words for his brethren.

My retreat finally takes me to my chambers. For a frantic spell I pace back and forth in front of my bed before unceremoniously flopping on top of it. I heave a heavy sigh, and a few hot tears pop out onto my cheeks. Suddenly I find myself longing for my mother’s presence, her quiet wisdom and her unquenchable spirit. For so long after she died, I longed to take on the duties she carried, to give my father what assistance I could.

_You need not bear your burdens alone, Ada,_ I once told him _. Let me help you as she once did._

Now that I finally have that wish, fear poisons my soul until I can hardly breathe. My heart absolutely screams for the one person in the entire world that I can fully open up to, the one that promised me one dark and fiery night in the forest that I would never face my fears alone. I yearn to find him, to fly into his comforting arms, to draw upon his quiet but powerful strength once more.

But Aradan, I deem, is too far beyond my reach now.

Knowing that tears will fix nothing and willing them to stop, I sit up and grab a small tome from my nightstand, the same one that I searched through with Aradan not long ago. Forcing that fact from my mind, I open it, hoping to find some sort of counsel from the past or even from the old prophecies of the future. Furiously I flip through it, but when my eyes catch a familiar image, my search stops cold.

The drawing of Menelvagor stares back at me, tinged with more melancholy than it ever used to be. My mind travels back to the night I first pointed the constellation out to Aradan. Fondly, I read over the history again and sigh.

Suddenly my brow furrows. I know well what Elbereth erected it to remind me of, but I find myself suddenly aware of the fact that the details of Dagor Dagorath have faded from my memory over the years. To occupy my mind, I flip to its place in the text and begin to read. The more I take in, the more that comes back to me: Morgoth finding his way back to Arda, the fury of the Valar, the assembling of all the Free Peoples, past and present, to fight him off, the release of souls from Mandos, the return of Túrin Turambar—

That fact catches my eye.

Túrin was a mortal man, dead since the First Age, yet in the future he, along with others, will return to kill Morgoth once and for all. When that happens, the battle that rages along with it will end in the destruction of Arda, meaning, as I have long known, that the souls of the Eldar, including my own, will no longer be bound to this world. And when the world is created anew, the Children of Illúvatar will join their Father and the Valar in that process.

Then it hits me.

That song will be sung by _all_ of Illúvatar’s children: all Elves, all Men that ever existed and ever will exist, joined together. Reunited.

Which means—

My heart all but stops.

My being is bound to Arda. Aradan’s will eventually pass on to the secret place of Men. Our fates do go in different directions. But in that moment, when the old order passes away and the new one begins, as we sing alongside our brethren, _we will be together again._   

            Never the same, never again to part. *

            My head spins with a wild joy, an unbridled new hope. Tossing the book aside, I spring up from my bed and rush through the palace to Aradan’s little room.

            But he is not there. In fact, I see no trace of him.

            Panic seizes me, and I shoot back through the halls, almost running Galion over in the process. Hastily I apologize, and he laughs rather nervously.

            “My lady seems in quite the hurry,” he says.

            “Have you seen Aradan?” I demand.

            “I caught sight of him not long ago,” Galion replies, “armed and dressed for travel.”

            My eyes grow wide, and a knowing look washes over Galion’s face.

            “He made his way to the stables,” Galion continues. “You should hurry if you wish to stop him.”

            “Thank you!” I reply, my voice laden with heavy emotion as I take off running.

            I pray that I will get there in time. When I reach the stables, I know that the Valar must be with me, for the soft jingling of tack jumps into my ears. I round a corner and, to my utter relief, find Aradan standing in one of the stalls, sliding the headstall of a simple bridle over a chestnut horse’s ears. A pack with a bedroll is tied to the saddle, along with his sword, bow, and quiver.

            “What are you doing?” I say.

            As if being snapped from some strange reverie, Aradan jumps at the sound of my voice. He steals a glance over in my direction, and, not daring to look me in the eye, returns his gaze to his well-worn boots. His face might be that of a wounded dear. He forces his eyes to my face and then flicks them away just as he finally speaks.

            “Going back to Eriador.”

            Though I already somewhat knew, the words all but knock the breath from my lungs.

            “Why?”

            I can all but see him scrambling for an answer.

            “They will not have heard of Orodben’s passing,” he stammers. “I must tell them of it!”

            I take a step forward.

            “You are many things, Aradan,” I say. “A talented liar is not one of them.”

            He only sighs and begins to lead his mount away.

            “You cannot leave now, Aradan!”

            He stops and turns around. A war wages in his eyes.

            “Y-you are needed here more than you know,” I manage.

            “By who?” he asks softly.

            I can only stand there, gaping like a fish torn from water. Something more akin to a grimace than a smile stretches across his face.

            ‘The only thing that would keep me here is forever barred from me, Caladhiel. _That_ is why I cannot stay.” His voice carries more pain than I ever believed it could.

            “And what, pray tell, is that?” I question.

            A silence passes, and when he at last replies, it is barely audible.

            “Do you not know?”

            His vulnerable gaze turns his countenance into that of a frightened and heartbroken child. Any and all semblance of words fails me, for I know exactly what he speaks of. Finally I can speak again.

            “What if it isn’t?” I murmur.

            He only shakes his head. “Oh, it is,” he says. He forces a saddened smile. “Farewell.”

            He begins to lead his mount towards the mouth of the cave once again, but my words stop him in his tracks.

            “If you leave this night, Aradan, then you will take my heart with you!”

            My hands start to shake, and his jaw drops.

            “I am a mortal; you are one of the Eldar. You are privileged; I am homeless. You are a princess, and I—” He swallows, and his voice is hoarse with pain. “I am just a fool.”

            The more his usual steadiness corrodes, the more my heart breaks, but a hot resolve now courses through me.

            “I care not about those things,” I say with a new determination, “and if that makes me a fool too, then so be it! I cannot hide any longer, Aradan.” My voice takes a softer tone. “And neither, I deem, can you.”

            Silence comes over us again. Immediately I regret the last bit. I begin to turn away.

            “Oh, Aradan, I am sorry. I—”

            “No, no,” he whispers. “You’re right.”

            I turn back to him, and my face lights up.

            “I cannot hide anymore,” He takes a few steps towards me, letting his horse go and taking my icy hands in his, which are calloused and warm. “And I _will_ not.”

            A soft light now glows in his eyes. His lopsided smile returns, accompanied by a new strength. I barely return the grin, though tears sparkle in the corners of my eyes. He leans down closer to me and then stops short, almost as if asking for my permission for what he is about to do. Something in my countenance must grant it, for he pulls me into his arms and kisses me tenderly. My arms slowly slip up around his neck, where my fingers become tangled in his raven hair. Eventually the kiss breaks, and I hold his face in my trembling hands.

            “Please stay,” I all but breathe, the words pleading.

            He laughs. “Do I really have a choice?” he quips gently.

            “No,” I whisper back. “You do not.”

            He smiles again. “Yes, Caladhiel, I will stay.”

            We kiss again, longer and deeper than the first. I then rest my head on his chest, relishing in the sound of his heartbeat while he holds me, nuzzling his cheek into the crown of my head. My ears catch the faintest shuffle from behind us, but I pay absolutely no attention to it.

            For the stone around my heart finally fully crumbles to the ground, and, for the first time in what seems an age, I can finally feel the sun once more.


	18. Fury

** Eighteen **

_Fury_

 

 

 

            Metal clanks upon metal; arrows whistle and hit wooden targets with a hollow _thwack_. Soldiers spar each other or sharpen their weapons; others still fill their quivers, look over their armor, or converse among themselves. Solemn business always looms over all present here, but when I glide into the training hall, it seems heavier than usual. The troops immediately stop whatever they are doing upon seeing me and snap into a rigidly proud attention as I pass by. After I give them a signal, they return to their work. Dûrion, one of our most trusted officers and Sereg’s father, stands observing the maneuvers, his broad arms folded across his chest. He hails me respectfully when he sees me.

            “How many have assembled, lord?” I inquire.

            “Eight thousand swords,” he replies. “A strong number, but still less, I deem, than what we need for this sortie.”

            “Does that include the warriors from the western border?” I ask.

            “No, my lady,” he says gravely, “though they were sent for long before the king revealed his plan.”

            I nod. “They will come. They need only time. And they may yet bring others with them.” I pause. “Is there any word from Lóthlorien?”

            “A force from Dol Guldur marches upon them as we speak,” he replies. “The power of the Lady holds them at bay, but should we need any aid, Celeborn, I fear, may be lost to us.”

            My brow furrows. “You doubt my father’s wisdom?”

            “Of course not,” he says. “This is our best chance to deal a decisive blow to our Enemy, but we shall pay for it with many lives.”

            His face darkens, and I know he thinks of his son.

            “The cost is difficult to bear,” I say, “but if we give in to despair, then the Enemy has already won. We cannot lose hope.”

            “Truer words have never been spoken, my lady,” Dûrion replies, giving me the closest thing to a smile that he ever can in his seemingly perpetual grimness. Momentarily he turns back to the scene in front of him. He then speaks again, and the words catch me off guard.

            “There are those that would blame you for Sereg’s death,” he says, “but you must know that I am not one of them.”

            My jaw goes slack, but I regain my composure quickly. “Thank you.”

            He nods cordially, turning back to his troops. I give them my focus as well, and the longer I watch, the more my confidence grows, though Dûrion’s words do not go unheeded. Eventually my eyes find Aradan sparring with one of the soldiers. They pause shortly, and the Elf speaks. I catch the sharp spark of wit in his eye when Aradan fires back. A broad grin captures his face, and the Elf laughs merrily, clapping him on the shoulder. They go a few more rounds; then, Aradan makes his way over to us. He steps up beside me, and I give him a small smile.

            “Aradan,” Dûrion says, “I believed you to be returning to your own people.”

            “I intended to, my lord,” Aradan replies, “but I was…otherwise convinced.”

            I fight for all it is worth to keep my face from breaking into a grin.

            “I am glad to hear it,” Dûrion says. “You sword is most assuredly welcomed here.” He pauses. “How are the men?”

            “Morale is high, but some have qualms,” Aradan says.

            “As they have every right to,” I say.

            “Yes,” Dûrion agrees. “This battle will decide the fates of many. Should we succeed, our Enemy will have been dealt a decisive blow. But the Golden Wood is overrun, and Erebor is besieged. I rue to think of what would happen to Rhovanion should we fail.” He shakes his head.

            Aradan sighs. “Those are grim thoughts, indeed, but as long as we draw breath, hope lives also.”

            I smile, and Dûrion nods.

            “You are wise beyond your years, my young friend,” he says. Just then another lord beckons him. He turns and gives me a quick bow. “My lady.” He then steps regally away.

            Sighing, I go back to watching the troops. Aradan takes a step closer to me.

            “They fight well, and their weapons are more than sound,” he says. “They are ready.”

            I nod. “What about you?” I ask, turning towards him. “Do you march with them at dawn, or will you stay with me?”

            “Whatever your father wishes,” he replies. Clandestinely he runs his fingers over mine. “Though I do not wish to venture too far.”

            A small smile twitches at the corners of my mouth. “Aradan—”

            “My lady Caladhiel.”

            I turn and find Galion standing beside us. He gives me a hurried bow.

            “The king has sent for you. Both of you.” Unease wafts off of him. “I would hurry.”

            Confusion delays my response. “Thank you, Galion,” I reply haltingly.

            He bows again and scurries away, and Aradan and I exchange glances.

            “Do you think everything is all right?” Aradan says.

            I shake my head. “With Galion, it is hard to tell. He is always nervous to some degree.” New uneasiness creeps up on me. “We should go.”

            As quickly as we can, we make our way to the throne room. When we finally enter, my father’s back is turned towards us, and Idhrenion stands a few steps behind and beside him, speaking in a low tone. Even with his face turned away from me, I can feel the all-too-familiar heat of my father’s anger rolling from his being. Though I don’t know what was done to deserve it, I suddenly grow sick to my stomach. Finally, I find the courage to speak.

            “You called for us, _Ada_?” I say as sweetly as I can manage.

            “I did,” he replies. His voice carries a cold heavier than even I can ever remember feeling, and he does not turn towards us.

            “Leave us, Idhrenion,” he says, waving a hand like a specter towards the general vicinity of the exit.

            With a crisp bow, Idhrenion turns and descends the stairs. His expression drips with disgust when he passes me, and it grows all the worse when his gaze passes over Aradan. The courtly mask that I usually wear around the royal officials falls to the ground and shatters, and the glower that nearly perpetually hides behind it hits Idhrenion full force and succeeds in running him out of the room. The doors shut with a hollow, heavy _clank_ , and I feel myself begin to shrink back.

            _Ada_ finally turns towards us. The untrained eye would think his gaze to be completely amiable, but I know better. Silver robes ripple around his feet as he descends towards us.

            “I see you did not return to Eriador as you planned,” he says.

            Aradan nods. “I decided against it, your majesty,” he replies coolly. “The need is greatest here.”

            “Indeed it is. Though I did not need to hear it from your own mouth to know that you were…otherwise convinced.”

            With every second the gentility he forces his voice to hold corrodes, and Aradan’s brow furrows.

            “Given the circumstances, it surprises me not,” Thranduil continues. “My daughter is a persuasive one, is she not? She is like her mother in that sense, and apparently put those traits to good use last night in stables.”

            _“_ Who told you this? _”_ Indignation and fear shrill my voice.

“Idhrenion saw everything and reported as he should have.” He stops and looks straight into each of our souls.

The shuffle I heard behind us but dismissed in that blissful moment rampages back into my mind, and my own anger begins to boil inside of me.

_Ada_ takes one more step towards us, and his next words are incredibly calculated.

            “Is it true?”

            Immediately I begin to scramble for an explanation. “ _Ada—”_

“Yes, it is true,” Aradan says evenly. There is no defiance in his voice.

            My eyes bug, and my jaw goes slack. Part of me inwardly applauds him for having the courage to be so boldly honest; the rest suddenly wants to kill him for it. I begin to think that my father actually may; he does next to nothing to hide his lividness now.

            “And what,” he says, “gave you the audacity to make such advances upon my daughter?” He takes slow, calculated steps forward, and his voice drops to a hiss. “I elevated you, supported you, _saved your life_ , and _this_ is how you repay me?”

            “There was nothing done that was against my will, _Ada,_ if that is what concerns you,” I say, beginning to grow angry myself. “And you did not save his life; _I_ did.”

            He gives me a startling look, and my own attempt at cordiality breaks.

            “Do not accuse us of something unlawful when nothing unlawful was done!”

            “I suggest nothing of the sort,” _Ada_ says, his disappointment unnerving. “I only believed you both to be wiser than this. I now know that I was wrong.” He turns away from us for a second and then looks dead at Aradan. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

            Aradan says nothing at first, but his eyes do not leave my father’s face. Shaking his head, _Ada_ turns away. Then, stepping forward, Aradan finally speaks.

            “You yourself said that I would be rewarded for the things I’ve done for this realm, and I now know what I would claim.”

            _Ada_ stops dead and turns back around.

            “I rue that you have to gall to mention this now, but nevertheless, I must keep to my word.” He sits on his throne. “Speak.”

            Aradan swallows hard, and though his fear grows more evident by the second, his voice does not falter.

            “Caladhiel’s hand.”

            My heart skips a beat and drops dead all at the same time, and Thranduil’s face falls into a stunned gape.

            _“What?”_ he growls.

            “I love her, and I would take her as my wife.” He turns to me, and the look in his eyes floors me. “ _If_ she would have me.”

            Thranduil’s eyes flash protectively as he stands up. “My daughter is not some prize to be conquered.”

            “Nor is she some forgotten relic to be forever kept behind lock and key!” I snap, placing myself between Aradan and the outraged king.

            Thranduil cocks an eyebrow. “You would accept this offer? From a _mortal man_?”

            “I would!” I force my anger down, turn to Aradan, and repeat with gentle sincerity, “I would.”

            _Ada_ merely stares us down, stunned.

            “You said that you would never force me to a place where my heart did not lie,” I say. “Now that it has found its keeper, do not force it from its fate.”

            Aradan slips up beside me, and we both wait with baited breath.

            “Very well, then,” Thranduil says, pinching the bridge of his nose and heaving a somewhat noisy sigh. “If this is truly where her heart lies, then there is nothing that I can do according to our law to stand in your way.”

            Aradan looks hopeful. I know better.

            “But?” I say.

            “But there is a task that I would have you complete before you take my daughter from me.” He stands and glides about halfway down the stairs. “By now you have surely heard of Ashuruk, the leader of Dol Guldur’s forces. He proved too brutal and cunning for even some of my very best men to defeat.”

            Whether or not he tries to allude to Sereg, I am not sure, though my anger at his tone all but makes me sick. His eyes flash, and he continues.

            “You will ride with us to Dol Guldur. You will find Ashuruk, and you will kill him yourself. His head shall be the bride price.”

            Fear and resentment hit me like a dart to the heart, and though I am not exactly surprised by the enormity of the demand, my jaw goes slack. I scramble for a protest, even consider stooping so low as to plea for mercy, but before I can say anything, Aradan squares his shoulders and speaks.

            “I accept.”

            Squeezing my eyes shut, I let out a silent and heavy sigh and hang my head.

            “It is settled, then,” Thranduil says. “You will leave with us at dawn.” Like a coiling snake he settles down onto his throne, though I don’t miss the tinge of grief in his voice. “We can only hope that you are ready for such a task.”

Aradan’s eyes do not fall from the king’s. I find myself proud of him for that, and in spite of my raging anger and overwhelming fear, my heart swells in another way.

            “Now leave us,” Thranduil says. His voice drops to the deepest level of bitterness yet. “I would speak with my daughter alone.”

            “Very good, my lord,” Aradan says.

            He begins to walk away, but I lay a hand on his arm to stop him for a second, begging him not to go without words. Our eyes meet, and though he fights to mask his own fear, he gives me a small but reassuring smile. Then he exits the hall, leaving me to deal with my father’s ever growing rage alone.

            Thranduil stares me down, and the look of sheer disdain that would normally send shivers down my spine only fuels my own anger.

            “How _could_ you?” I growl.

            His eyes pop. “I do what I must,” he says coldly. “This is to protect you _—_ ”

            “But why _this?_ To a man that has shown you nothing but loyalty—”

            “ _Loyalty?_ ” he spits. “Loyalty? The boy marched into my realm and had the _audacity_ to advance himself upon you! What he did—what _both_ of you did—is _inexcusable_ , Caladhiel. If he would claim my greatest treasure, then he will slay that beast and prove himself worthy of it!”

            Angry tears well up in my eyes. “But he’ll die—!”

            “Yes, he will. Whether it be tomorrow or a hundred years from now. He is _mortal,_ Caladhiel.” He sighs, and his manner seems to soften ever so slightly. “But when he dies—”

            “I will die with him! Linger on in this world until my heart can no longer bear the sorrow. You know this to be true.” Calculatedly I fire his own words back on him. “You know the ways of our people, _Ada._ ”

            “I would spare you that pain, my daughter. _That_ is why I demanded this!”

            “You would only bring it upon me sooner! My heart lies with him.” I begin to shake my head. “It is too late for me, _Ada._ Take all of this back before you lose both of us!”

            His eyes pierce my soul as he stands. “My mind is set. He will either defeat Ashuruk in battle to win your hand…or he will die trying.”

            My anger reaches its pinnacle as hot tears pool in my eyes.

            “Then both my blood and his will be on _your hands!”_

I turn and storm from the throne room. When _Ada_ sinks all but wearily back into his throne and rubs his temples, I don’t see it. Nor do I care. I fight for life and limb to keep the tears restrained, and when I reach my old place what is left of the gardens, I begin to think that I have successfully choked them back, but a familiar set of light footsteps causes them to resurface. I try to find words, but I cannot bring myself to turn around just yet.

            “My mother would often read me the lay of Beren and Lúthien when I was small,” I say. “I remember my father jesting with her: ‘Be careful, Estelwen, lest our daughter find a Beren of her own!’ And my mother would laugh.” I sigh heavily. “But it all turned out to be true.”

            A small silence passes, filled only with the sorrowful song of night.

            “Do you wish that it were not?” Aradan finally says from behind me, taking a few steps closer.

            “Of course not,” I say, turning to face him. “In the darkness of this war, you have been my greatest light.” I swallow hard. “But now I fear that light will go out.”

            A few renegade tears finally leak from my eyes, and even now I hang my head in a vain effort to conceal them. Without any hesitation Aradan steps forward and tenderly wipes them away with his thumb. His hands fall to my shoulders and my head to his chest, and I finally allow myself to release the storm of emotion that rages inside of me. His arms wrap tightly around me, and we stand locked in our desperation for we know not how long. Above us, Menelvagor peeks through the thick line of trees, sparkling in the thick black sky, and at long last I begin to regain my breath.

            “You don’t have to do this,” I finally say.

            His brow furrows, and the look in his eyes is enough to tell me otherwise. I scramble to continue, and the words sound more like Esgalion’s than my own.

            “We…we could run away. Take me across the river, to Gondor, to your people. Let us leave tonight while we still can—!”

            “And where would that put us?” Aradan murmurs, placing two fingers on my lips to silence me. “I know we rue to face this truth, but your father is right. One day, either age or the sword will take me, and when that day comes, Thranduil may very well be the only person that you have left. It is for that reason that I agreed to his demands, steep though they are. So that you won’t be alone.”

            His words initially make me incredibly angry, but I cannot deny the wisdom in them. The look in his eye and the tone of his voice does much to diffuse me, and my resentment is replaced by a deep, deep sadness and an overwhelming fear. Unable to look at him, I squeeze my eyes shut and nod. He stoops and kisses my brow before he continues.

            “I know you are afraid,” he says. “I am too, more than I have ever been of anything in my entire life. But I need to know that you are with me.”

             Sighing, I raise my hands to his face, and our foreheads touch. My voice is laced with conviction, though it is barely a whisper.       

            “I am with you.”


	19. War

** Nineteen **

_War_

           

           Though the sun has not even thought of rising, the palace and the grounds outside it ring with solemn energy. Soldiers hurry here and there on errands, swords are sharpened, belongings are packed and thrown on to backs and saddles. Horses trot on leads behind their masters, and riders leap on to their backs, steering them where they are needed with their legs. Officers shout hoarse orders. Excitement barrels through the lower men, seasoned warriors and new fighters with the first chance at glory alike, and morale seems incredibly high.

            As I stand alone watching, I find myself wishing that I could remind them of the pain they will face, warn them of the horrors of the Shadow that are bound to fall upon them, but I cannot muster words. I then begin to notice the families of the fighting men: the nervous mothers, distraught wives, and confused children. Common people all united by one singular dread.

            I find myself to be closer in heart to them than to a queen.

            Rigidly I keep my eyes to some middle distance, not truly seeing anything. I fight so hard to steel myself against the raging shadow that I hardly hear the light footsteps and the soft jingle of armor approaching.

            “I suppose this is where we say goodbye,” Aradan’s voice murmurs from behind me.

            “Not goodbye,” I say. “Not yet.”

I turn and find him standing behind me, fully dressed for battle, sword and armor glimmering of pale silver in the twilight. A saddened smile twitches at the corner of my mouth.

            “My champion,” I say, coming closer to him and laying my hands on his arms. “And now you look it.” My smile widens. “If it weren’t for this old cloak, I may not know you now.”

            Aradan laughs. “That would be a pity.”

            “Indeed,” I reply. “Indeed.”

            Heavy silence falls between us, sucking away our mirth like a leach.

            “It is a three day ride to Dol Guldur,” he says. “Add one day for the fighting, and three more for the return journey.”

            “If there is a return journey…” My eyes fall to the ground, and my voice grows thick.

            “Seven days,” he says gently. He runs his finger along my jaw and lifts up my face as he adds, “Then I promise to return to you, and this darkness will be dispelled once and for all.”

            Tears brim in my eyes. “A promise you _will_ keep. That is an order—”

            “Aradan, we must go.” King Thranduil’s voice is frozen steel as he strides by us and mounts his horse. “Take your leave of my daughter.”

            Sharp sadness, grief even, wash over us. We each take heavy, reluctant steps back. Slowly Aradan turns and approaches his mount, which stands alert next to Deroch. Idhrenion slips into the place he left behind; Castien comes up on my other side, his face grave and his manner melancholy. Just as he gets to his horse’s head, Aradan stops dead, looks at his feet for a moment, and sighs.

            He then turns around, marches decisively back to me, takes me into his arms, and kisses me with a passion that nearly knocks the wind from my lungs. When he breaks it, he pulls a simple ring from a chain around his neck.

            “This was my mother’s,” he whispers as his shaking hands fumble to slide the ring onto my finger. “Take it in troth.”

            Barely able to restrain my tears, I nod.

            “I love you,” I choke.

            “ _Gerog i chûn nîn,_ ” he whispers.

            Reluctantly I let him go. He turns back to the army. As they ride away, I turn my attention back to the ring that now sits on my right forefinger. A small, clear stone set in silver reflects the light of a familiar constellation peaking through the twilight.

            I look up to find Menelvagor smiling down upon me. Tears immediately flow as the company disappears into the darkness. Linneth, who also weeps, comes beside me and puts a comforting arm around my shoulders, and I slip mine around her waist. We stay like that for we know not how long. Castien and Idhrenion stand silent on either side, Castien tinged with sorrow and Idhrenion with blunted disgust. Finally, as the last sounds of my father’s host fade into the darkness, Castien speaks, his voice soft and full of compassion.

            “What would you have me do, my lady?”

            For a moment I myself stay silent, fighting to force my personal issues and worry back and do what my people need of me. I run through the tales, old and new, of similar situations to ours. I then turn to reenter the palace, and slowly but surely I begin to formulate a plan.

            “Evacuate any settlements that are still occupied and bid the people to come here,” I say slowly. “Seal the gate, double the guard. Any and all that are strong enough should be armed, even the _nissi_.”

            “You seem to be preparing for another attack on the palace,” Idhrenion says, his chest almost visibly puffing up as he speaks. “Surely it will not come to that—”

            “Should the Enemy chose to attack once more while our main force is absent, I wish to be prepared,” I counter. The edge in my words sounds uncannily like my father. “I may even call upon your sword—” my voice drops “—if it is still sharp.”

             Anger boils under Idhrenion’s skin, but my words and gaze have the desired affect. His voice is extremely cold, and his jaw bulges before he speaks.

             “As you wish, my lady.”

             He turns crisply on his heel and storms away. After laying a reassuring hand on my shoulder, Linneth follows him to begin what work she can. Only Castien and I remain in the glaringly empty hall. His armor and array of weapons clink together as he lightly comes to my side. His words catch me a bit off guard.

              “I have a daughter. Rodwen. Do you remember her?”

              A small smile creeps across my face as the image of a fiery, dark-haired _ellith_ jumps into my memory. “How could I forget?”

              “When the Shadow grew darker here, her mother and I sent her away where we deemed she would be safer. But as the darkness spreads more and more though the West, I cannot help but worry for her sometimes.” He sighs. “For that reason, I can empathize with King Thranduil in all of this. A father’s need to protect his daughter is always great. But I also see something that the king very well may have missed.”

              He pauses for a moment, obviously measuring his words and taking great care not to step over some invisible boundary.

“By any stretch of the imagination, you and Aradan should never have found each other. Neither of you should even be alive,” he finally says. “You have already overcome impossible odds. That tells me that a greater power may yet be at work here. And what the Valar have blessed, none but Illúvatar can separate. It seems strange, but in my heart I do not believe that He will.” He smiles. “There is hope for you yet.”

Stunned and touched, I can only stand silent for a while. Then at last I turn to him.

“Thank you.”

He nods and smiles again. “My lady.”

With a quick bow, he turns and begins to make his way to the training hall. After a while I follow him.

Refugees crowd the halls, and the guard does what it can to distribute provisions and give weapons to any that can wield them. I throw myself into the work, occasionally consulting with Castien or a rather sour Idhrenion. Galion, for his part, runs about the palace like a madman when he doesn’t incessantly attempt to wait on me. As he has known me for so long, I don’t blame him.

He sees the heartache that I fight for life and limb to mask.

I, for one, straighten myself and weave through the halls. Many of my people immediately drop what they are doing and follow me with their gazes; wherever I step, the hall seems to go silent, only to spring to somber life again. Fear weighs every single one of them down, but one in particular catches my eye.

Whimpering and curled up in another Elf’s arms, a tiny _elleth_ sits on the cold stone floor. She visibly trembles, and tears pour down her cheeks in little torrents. I take a step closer, and it is then that I notice the burns that mar her arms. Brow furrowing with concern, I make my way over and stop in front of them. The other Elf, who I begin to think is the little one’s elder brother, looks up at me with wide eyes.

“M—my lady,” he stammers. _“Suilaid.”_

_“Mae govannen,”_ I murmur back.

“To…to what do we owe the honor?”

I only kneel down and lay a tender hand on the _elleth’s_ shoulder in response.

Her trembling surges violently at my touch, but calms when her brother whispers something to her that I do not catch. Slowly she turns to look at me, and her eyes grow wide. I chuckle a little.

“There is nothing to fear, little one,” I try to soothe. “I am here to look after you.”

She looks confused, but slowly relief washes over her battered face.

I produce the necessary supplies and begin to get to work in cleaning and dressing the burns.

“What is your name?” I ask her.

So stunned or shy is she that she cannot give me a response save staring at me with the same childlike wonder.

“Her name is Raina, your highness,” her brother offers. “I am Daeron.”

Nodding, I take Raina’s arm in my hand as gently as I can and begin to treat the burn. She begins to cry once more from the pain. Quickly I begin to hum a simple incantation, and her weeping stops.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Our village was attacked,” Daeron says. “The forest all around us was set ablaze. Our…” Grief steals the words from his mouth, but he fights through it. “Our father fell defending our home from the Orcs, and our mother sacrificed herself to save Raina from the flames. It was all I could do to keep Raina with me in the fray, but by some miracle of Elbereth we escaped.”

Raina whimpers again, and Daeron suddenly looks ashamed.

“I did all I could, my lady,” he stammers, “but it wasn’t enough—”

“You have done well,” I say, my voice laced with strong conviction. “You saved her life, as well as your own. Do not slight yourself, Daeron.” I pause for a while to slip a clasping pin over one of Raina’s bandages. “I too lost my mother years ago to the same rabble from Gundabad. You are not alone in your grief.”

A sad smile slips across Daeron’s face, and tears fill his bright eyes.

“Thank you, my lady.”

I only return the smile in response.

“And you, little one,” I say to Raina as I fix the last of the bandages, “are very brave indeed, and I am very proud of you.” I slide the clasping pin on and pull back a little. “Now, does that feel better?”

Nodding, she smiles shyly and finally finds it within her to speak.

“Thank you,” she barely whispers.

“Of course,” I say to her, giving her good hand a little squeeze.

I then gather my things and get to my feet.

“Keep fighting onwards, and do not let go of hope,” I tell both of them. “It will see us through in the end.”

I find that I am speaking to myself as much as I am to them.

Daeron smiles. “Thank you, your highness—”

“My lady,” Castien’s voice says gravely from behind me.

I turn and find him standing with a few of his men.

“The troops from the Western Border have returned,” he continues.

“Good!” I say. I then catch the sternness in his eye and the angst that weighs him down. “But…what is it?”

“Come quickly, my lady,” he says in response.

I allow them to escort me down a few long hallways and into the throne room. A warrior, the leader of the force from the Western Border, stands just in front of the throne and next to Idhrenion, rubbing his temple with his fingers. So consumed by his thoughts is he that he doesn’t seem to notice us when we enter, and Castien calls him from his reverie.

“Saeldur!”

His head snaps up, and urgency takes hold of his expression as he makes his way over to me and gives me a quick and crisp bow.

“My lady,” he says. “I was told that King Thranduil rode for Dol Guldur and that you rule in his stead. Therefore, it is my duty to tell you that the king’s men may be in grave danger.”

My heart drops to my toes, but I force my ever-growing fear down.

“Why do you say this?” I ask.

In response, he beckons to one that I cannot see, and two warriors burst in to the room pushing a seething Orc in front of them.

I don’t miss the mark of Gundabad on his armor, and dread washes over me once again.

“This filth was captured along the banks of the Forest River,” Saeldur reports. “He was a straggler from a greater host that we found later moving south.”

My brow furrows. “They mean to attack us here?”

Saeldur shrugs, and the Orc begins to cackle. A yellow sneer slinks across his face. With my hand on the hilt of my sword, I advance towards him.

“Tell me where that host is going, and I will set you free.”

My father has no love for Orcs, but the few times that I have seen him deal with them as prisoners, the offer for freedom was given. I deem it a good place to start.

The Orc only laughs all the harder, mumbling in Black Speech as he does so. The warrior on his right pulls a knife and holds it flush to his throat.

“Speak!” he commands.

The Orc’s mocking laughter reaches its pinnacle as his head rolls on his shoulders. Then he suddenly snaps his gaze to me.

“Why would Mordor trouble itself over a scared little She-Elf?” it hisses.

I straighten and my eyes flash. “I have killed many Orcs over the course of my life,” I say. “If you do not give me what I need, you shall be no different.”

“I keep my mouth shut, I die. I give away our secrets, I die. You say you’ll let me go, but it ain’t beyond reason to think that one of your pretty warriors’ll put an arrow through my skull as soon as I leave. But it don’t matter. You’ll suffer the same fate soon enough.”

I raise an eyebrow. “So they are coming here?”

The Orc stays silent, licking its lips and letting its beady eyes wander aimlessly around the chamber.

“Answer her!” Castien demands, drawing his own sword and coming in between the Orc and me.

The Orc scoffs and hurls curses at me in Black Speech, and the warrior that holds it yanks its head up and digs his blade into its neck as a warning. Choking a little, the Orc backs down.

“Why would we waste our time attacking the palace when the real prize ain’t even here anymore?”

I fail to mask my confusion, and the Orc just laughs again.

“Poor little She-Elf thinks herself a queen, and she don’t even understand me!”

I only stand there and try to stare it into submission, and the warrior holding the prisoner digs the knife into its neck until it screams. The Orc then seems more willing to cooperate.

“You live or you die, it makes no difference to Sauron,” it pants, “but that pretty dog you call king has a nice price on his head.” He chuckles. “But don’t think that when we’re done with him, we won’t come back for you!”

I merely raise an eyebrow at the threat. The Orc only grows more maniac.

“Fire will consume the forest, and Elvish blood will flow where the Curse is strongest—”

The realization hits me, and I cut him off.

“Dol Guldur,” I all but hiss.

The Orc only laughs harder.

“Pretty trap, ain’t it?” he mocks. “They’ll all fall, from your precious king to that pitiful mortal dog—”

Before I realize what I’m doing my sword flashes out and the Orc’s head is rolling on the floor. My hands start to shake, and I stumble back a few steps, fighting to catch my breath. Castien grabs my arm to steady me, and shock is plastered all over his face.

“That habit run in the family?” he all but breathes.

I just give him a look, and without a word he leads me to the throne and sits me down. I sigh and throw my head up against the top of it.

“Castien, Saeldur, prepare your men. We ride for Dol Guldur with all speed.”

“ _We?”_ Idhrenion scoffs. “Your father left you to look after the people here, Caladhiel. Someone must stay behind to watch the throne—“

“Yes, which is why _you_ shall stay here, and _I_ will ride for Dol Guldur.” I then turn to Castien and Saeldur. “Go!”

Immediately they both turn and stride from the room, barking orders to their men in Sindarin as they do so. I stand from the throne and begin to leave to prepare myself, but Idhrenion speaks.

“You would make this appear to be some courageous crusade for your people, but I know what this is really about.”

I stop dead, and Idhrenion comes up behind me, dripping with disdain.

“The mortal’s fate was sealed from the moment he laid eyes on you,” he continues. “You cannot save him—”

“You forget your place, Idhrenion,” I snap.

“No, you forget yours,” he hisses back. “You are a child, not a ruler, and you know nothing of the order of the world.” His voice drops to an even lower tone of disgust. “If you ride after him now, you are a fool.”

Sharply I turn around. My voice is laced with conviction.

“I would rather die a fool than live on as a coward.”

With that I speed from the hall, leaving Idhrenion to stand behind me gaping like a fish torn from water. As I gather my weapons, pull on my armor, and swing up on to my horse, I find myself repeating one tiny, simple prayer:

_Elbereth, kindler of the stars, let me get there in time._


	20. Dol Guldur

** Twenty **

_Dol Guldur_

           

Fear wraps itself around our troop like an icy hand. The acrid stench of smoke pours over us; the farther South we drive, the worse it becomes. Darkness grows heavier and heavier as the trek wears on, and an odd, horrible ice shoot up and down my spine and begins to sew my mouth shut. Now the sounds of conflict leap into my ears. In spite of the clench in my chest and the heat that begins to form behind my eyes, I spur my mount forward to crest a hill. As soon as we reach the peak, my hand shoots up and our host stops behind us with Castien and Saeldur on either side of me.

I hear Saeldur’s voice as at a distance telling me that the battle seems to be going well, but I can only sit astride the horse and gape.

Many Orcs lie slain, but the bodies of our own men are scattered among them, fallen stars in a black sea. Those that still stand fight ferociously against a dwindling but mighty adversary; swords flicker in the light of flames, javelins fly, and bows sing. Screams, cries, and the sharp smack of metal upon metal are a chaotic staccato accompanying this terrible dance of battle and death. And in the middle of it all the ruins of the fortress of Dol Guldur loom like a mighty, decrepit mountain.

Somewhere in the chaos I know are my father, Elhadron, and Aradan, but I see none of them. Orders bark from somewhere in my father’s voice—I know now that at least he still lives—and the troops stand fast at the gates of the fortress, waiting as a solid wall of light for the squealing shadow of the enemy to fall upon them. And fall it does.

My heart screams terror for Aradan, and though I squeeze my eyes shut to keep tears back, a few of them force their way through.

Castien’s horse prances nervously in place. He turns to me while pulling back on the reins.

“My lady,” he says, “now is the time.”

Staring straight ahead and fighting to keep my face stone, I merely pull out my sword in response, lowering it to about the point of my horse’s swiveling ear. The blade shakes in my trembling hand. I draw in a slow, deep breath; then, my voice breaks out through the dark:

_“Lacho calad!”_

The force responds as one storm as a horn blows a strong and fell note as clear as glass:

_“Drego morn!”_

And we pour down the small slope and barrel towards our enemy.

Stunned cries from the enemy are matched by the equally stunned, victorious shouts from our own men as we leap into the fray. I slash and stab with all of my might as my horse charges through the mire, and Orcs fall in our wake. Their archers open fire; my own men begin to fall, but I barely have time to grieve for them before my horse is shot out from under me. The ground meets me before I can even think of landing on my feet, and the wind is knocked from my lungs. As quickly as I can manage I haul myself to my feet, replace sword with bow, and begin to pick off any of the enemy as best I can. Castien—also now without a mount—flies to my side along with some of the other men, and between all of us, a hole is cleared. We push through.

My father’s men shout praises to Elbereth and declarations of victory, but the knowledge of the filth that barrels unmercifully nearer sends dread through my veins. My head whips around until my eyes meet a welcome sight: Dûrion leaning on his great sword taking respite from the fray while a few feet away Elhadron drives his own through an enemy on the ground to finish him off. Arrow still on string, I fly over to them with Castien on my heels and call out to them.

Dûrion’s head shoots up, but before he can even get his feet moving Elhadron is already running over to me. Worry and a little bit of anger knit his face into an expression of confusion.

“Cousin, why have you come?” he demands.

I fight to catch my breath as I speak, and the words come out in a hurried, panicked stream:

“To warn you. Another force from Gundabad is coming here to trap you and they’re moving with great haste. We must tell my father—!”

He lays a hand on my shoulder to stop me and calm me down.

“Breathe and tell me again: what is going on?”

“Another force is coming here from Gundabad. We caught one of their scouts not four days ago and heard it from his own mouth! They will soon be upon you.”

The color drains from Elhadron’s face, and Dûrion, who has now come to Elhadron’s side, bows his head.

“Dûrion, find the king,” Elhadron says.

Without a word Dûrion takes off into the chaos, waving a few of his own men to his side as he goes. Elhadron turns back to me.

“How much time do we have?”

Before I can even reply, a terrible rhythm shakes the forest:

_Boom boom ba-doom boom_

And I let it answer for me.

The cheers of my father’s men grow suddenly, deathly silent. In the clearing the drums keep pounding, and a huge black mass of rotting rictuses and guttural screeches crests over the hill. A particularly large Orc, bearing the mark of Gundabad on his armor like all of the others, screams out a string of terrible curses in Black Speech. A chilling response comes from within the fortress and all around us, and before I can even get my fingers on my bowstring, they pour over the hill as others still pour out of the fortress, coming at us from all sides. Their swords and arrows glow deadly red in the firelight, and, with a unanimous cry as we go to meet our possible doom, ours flicker with them.

Once again I hear my father’s voice—from where, I still cannot tell—and a force of our own men pour from the other side of the fortress and flank the enemy, slamming into them with a sudden, swift, and terrible vengeance. It isn’t long, however, until even they become overwhelmed, and my bow is all too quickly put back to good use. Elhadron on one side of me, Castien on the other, and Saeldur guarding the rear, we push through the shrieking storm towards the remains of Dol Guldur’s old gate. My arms grow tired, my lungs start to burn, and my fear threatens to stop my pounding heart from beating again, but finally, _finally_ I break through and perch myself on the cracked stone steps.

I drive an arrow through a squealing victim’s heart and yank it back out, and a sudden, cold wind shoots from somewhere deep within the ruins. The ice around my spine hardens and shoots up to the nape of my neck, and I fight back the sudden terror as best I can. Castien and the others catch up, and for a moment at least, in our little claim among the chaos, all goes eerily quiet. We push further towards the gate, and I gather spent arrows as best I can, whipping my head around in a terror.

Then I hear it.

The ring of clashing swords echoing from somewhere terribly deep in the fortress accompanied by cries too pure to be from an Orc’s throat but too harsh to be from one of my people.

“No…”

Elhadron surges forward with me on his heels, only to be cut off by a small party of stragglers barreling towards us down the hall. We turn to go another way, only to be cut off again, and that ring and those cries seem simultaneously drawing closer but in another world than my own. I catch the flicker of bright silver armor moving on what is left of the upper levels. Desperation takes over.

Before I can stop myself, I dive in among the party that came to stop us and plunge an arrow into a shocked enemy, only to be forced to dodge a blow from behind. Ducking, I swing my leg around in a low kick and knock my assailant off of its feet, and another arrow meets its throat. Gurgling and screeching, it falls, only to be replaced by yet another. Its sword bears down on my bow, and just as I begin to buckle under the weight, Saeldur pounces and slits the monster’s throat from behind. I turn again to find yet another Orc, scimitar poised over its head for a killing blow, but the point of a blade pushes through its spine before the blow ever lands. Slowly it falls, revealing Elhadron standing over it with a righteous fury coursing through him. He spins around and takes on another, particularly large Orc, and Castien, up ahead, finally clears a pathway that leads deeper into the fortress.

I push my way to him just as another distinct scream pierces the darkness. Letting out a cry of his own, Castien swings his sword, taking the head of the last enemy that stands in between him and his goal. He the turns to me and nods towards the dark tunnels and winding stairways.

_“Go!”_ he bellows.

Face twisting into a fell scowl, I surge forward until the sounds of the skirmish behind me begin to fade. A few more Orcs jump out at me; I cut them down without a second thought. I stop for a moment, willing my heavy breathing to quiet until I hear that blessed voice again clear above the chaos.

My legs propel me towards the sound, even as I scramble to fit another arrow to the string. I sprint through dark hallways and up stairs until I finally see the dull light of outside at the end of the tunnel. When I finally get to it and charge into the open, my heart leaps into my throat.

Aradan.

He is alive, but bloodied. He still fights gallantly, but he tires. And towering over him, cruelly curved knife in one hand and wickedly spurred sword in the other, is the largest, foulest Orc I have seen since Ravenhill sixty years ago.

Between the physicality, the savagely proud gleam in the horrid yellow eyes, and the marks of Gundabad painted on the armor in bolder strokes than all of the others, I know that this must be Ashuruk.

Neither of them can see me, arrow on string, desperately waiting for an opening. Suddenly Ashuruk makes a stunningly decisive blow, sending Aradan to the ground, but the young Ranger gets back on his feet quickly, dirtied sword in hand, hardly able to block the savage blows that rain down on him. As soon as the filth’s back is turned, as soon as it has Aradan pinned to a wall with a grimy hand around his throat, as soon as he sneers that he thinks victory is in his grasp, I fire.

The arrow sinks deep into Ashuruk’s shoulder, and he howls out in rage and pain. He then turns away from Aradan and towards me; I now notice the terrible red war paint etched in harsh patterns across his black face. He bellows at me, swings his sword around his hand a few times, and charges.

I fire again, hitting him in the leg. Grunting, he pauses, breaks the shaft, _and keeps coming._

Desperately I reach for another arrow, and my muscles scream for quarter as I pull the bow back yet again. A combination of fatigue and fear send the arrow flying forward early, whizzing well past Ashuruk’s ear. He doesn’t stop, and when I go to draw another arrow, my hand closes around air.

I glance down to find my quiver completely empty.

When I look back up, Ashuruk’s sword is hurtling down towards me, only to be stopped by Aradan’s blade. A new fervor has overcome him, and he beats his adversary back with a ferocity that even I knew not lay in his heart. His speed obviously catches Ashuruk off guard as well, but the Orc still visibly searches for an opening in Aradan’s fury. Finally he sees his opportunity and kicks Aradan hard in the stomach, bringing him to his knees.

Drawing my own short sword, I come in from behind, only for my blow to be blocked by the sword that comes so quickly it nearly knocks me off balance. I stumble backwards, blocking another hard blow that makes my arms tingle and buckle. Aradan quickly regains his breath and his footing and leaps to block the knife that comes hurtling for my head. Aggravated, Ashuruk turns to deal with him, only to barely parry my blade. As our own speed and fury peak, I begin to think that we may finally be gaining the advantage.

Ashuruk’s earth-shattering bellow forces me to take that thought back.

A sharp kick to the face sends Aradan hurtling towards the ground, and when I go to aid him, Ashuruk’s grey-black hand crushes my wrist in an iron grip. He twists around, flings me over his back, and hurls me into the stone floors. My vision goes black on impact, and my struggle to breathe becomes all the worse when he drives his knife into my shoulder. Terrible pain, both burning and cold, overwhelms my senses, and I scream.

When my sight returns seconds later, Ashuruk stands above me, growling out a cackle as he poises his sword above my heart for the final blow.

I begin to wonder if the light of Valinor truly is as bright as my kindred recall. My heart readies itself for the Halls of Mandos, eagerly anticipating the loving embrace and my mother’s calm voice that wait just beyond this nightmare.

It will have to wait longer.

For both Ashuruk and I have forgotten Aradan.

He comes seemingly out of nowhere and grabs Ashuruk’s wrist, holding the sword up above the monster’s head as he drives my wayward arrow into its torso. Ashuruk screeches, but the pain only fuels his rage, and he comes after Aradan with blinding speed and unexpected power, driving him back. Barely keeping up, Aradan stumbles a bit.

Though my own pain still knocks the wind from my lungs, all my own arrows and knives are spent, and my sword is desperately out of reach, I struggle feebly to help him. When I move, the entire world spins ferociously on its axis, and I moan.

Finally the dizziness stops. Once again I can see clearly. To my horror, Ashuruk stands only feet away, fingers once again locked around Aradan’s throat as he lifts the Ranger off the ground. He poises his sword and stops, drinking in his victim’s pain and obviously pausing to relish in his victory, and another horrid smile spreads across his face.

Fear, anger, and a new power suddenly wash over me. My eyes cast about for a weapon, but the only one I can find is wedged into my shoulder, the one thing that keeps me from bleeding out.

But I know what Aradan would do were he in my position.

So I don’t hesitate.

Crying out, I wrench the knife from my shoulder, somehow get to my feet, and fling myself onto Ashuruk’s back, wrapping my good arm around his neck and holding the knife—still red with my own blood—in the other hand. Stunned, he drops Aradan as I desperately try to ram the knife into the top of his head, only to be flung off of his shoulders like a ragged old cloak into the stone walls. I crumple to the ground and roll over, only able to hopelessly watch.

Aradan is back on his feet, but his attempt to retake the offensive is brutally, savagely turned against him. Ashuruk drives his back close to a wall, knocking his blade away as if it were a fly.

And this time he doesn’t stop to gloat.

_No!_

Aradan’s mouth falls open in a stunned and pained gape. His eyes, brimming with unshed tears, meet mine, and even now he tries to reassure me.

But I can only weep.

The blade is ripped away, and Aradan crumples to the ground. Standing over him, Ashuruk growls. Another yellow rictus shoots across his face, and he bellows something like a victory cry in his own tongue, holding both bulging arms out to their full length.

Then he turns back towards me, licking his lips in anticipation as he marches steadily closer.

My eyes grow wide, but I still have enough strength to slide my battered body away from him as he approaches. Eventually my scalp hits the coldness of rock, and I know my path is blocked. Finally accepting my fate, I stare my enemy straight in the face and utter a tiny prayer in my own tongue as he raises the bloodstained sword up over his head.

I hear the sound of a blade plunging into flesh, the crack of it breaking bone, though I feel no pain.

But Ashuruk’s sword clatters to the ground as he throws his head back, screeching and squealing in chilling agony. Finally the sharp point of a bright sword sticks out of Ashuruk’s breastbone, only to suddenly withdraw as that same blade quickly cleaves through the monster’s neck. His headless body topples over, revealing a quivering, panting, and paled Aradan.

In spite of everything, by the intervention of Elbereth herself, he still completed his task.

Holding one hand over the wound in his side and his blackened sword in the other, he stumbles backwards and collapses so that his back is still propped up against a decaying pillar. Mustering what little strength I have, I all but slither along the ground, leaving a trail of blood and gritting against my own pain until finally, _finally_ I lay spent at his side. Groaning a little, he pulls me into his arms and weakly cradles me. He manages a weak smile; I return it as I raise a shaking hand to his face.

_We did it,_ his eyes exclaim.

Suddenly a horn, clear and bright, breaks over the ring of battle, certainly not of the Orcs but not from my people either. Cries of delight and declarations of victory follow in my tongue in its wake. Now bright flashes of pure, white light pierce the darkness, and a voice—fair, fell, and full of authority—cries out in a language I have heard maybe once or twice in my life.

Quenya.

“Galadriel…” I pant.

Hope breaks over Aradan’s features, and if his body were not broken so, I know that he would have laughed for joy.

The White Lady continues to expel the Shadow, and around us the walls of the fortress of darkness begin to crumble. Even now, the air takes a lightness that I have not felt in it since the happy days of my childhood just over five hundred years ago.

And I know that, even though I seem doomed to pass on, my home is finally cleansed.

Finally free.

That gives me some comfort. Aradan’s breathing becomes more labored, and I struggle again to speak.

“When you get to the Halls of Mandos…wait for me. I won’t be long.”

Slightly Aradan smiles, and he manages to pull me closer and plants a weak but passionate kiss on my lips.

Likely the last we will share until the ending of the world.

The clouds peel back, and for one last time, Menelvagor bathes us in its warm and distant light.

 __________________________________________________________________________________________

In what seems the distance, I hear my father’s broken voice cry out my name and am vaguely aware when he rushes to my side, looking more stricken than I have seen him since my mother’s death. I try to speak, but darkness rushes upon me quickly, and I focus everything on fighting to lengthen what I deem will be the last moments I spend with my father. Tears pool in his usually cold eyes, and this one time, proud King Thranduil just bows his head and lets them fall.

            He then beholds the giant, headless corpse that lies just away from us, and his voice shakes as he lays a quiet hand on Aradan’s shoulder.

            “Well done, my son,” he whispers.

            Aradan only coughs in response.

            The world once again goes into a blur. I feel my father gently lift me in his arms, and the small crowd of Woodland soldiers and Galadhrim that followed him parts to let him through. I see glimpses of Elhadron fighting to save Aradan over my father’s shoulder, and my heart sends up a plea to the Valar: that his life would be spared.

            And though it is no song of Tinúviel, a small voice whispers to me as the blackness finally takes me over that my prayer will not go unanswered.


	21. Eryn Lasgalen

** Twenty-One **

_Eryn Lasgalen_

 

 

 

            _Caladhiel!_

The darkness that surrounds me is immediately punctured with a bright light: the first that I have seen in what feels ages. Still it seems distant to me—as does the voice that calls out my name—but nevertheless, I am drawn to it. As it grows closer and larger, the cold that covers me suddenly melts away, replaced with overwhelming warmth. Just beyond the deep bright I see the blurred outlines of a world just out of my reach. It begins to grow suddenly clearer; I now can make out the tall white pillars of a gleaming hall with Elves, Dwarves, and Men alike walking through it, still recognizable but seemingly truer versions of themselves—

            _Caladhiel!_

The image of the hall grows blurred once more, and I sharply turn around, trying to find the source of the voice. Instead of the darkness I expect, scenes play out before me—memories—and I feel a part of them and disconnected from them all at once:

            I see my brother and I, both still very young, running through the forest when light still danced in the treetops, birds still sang, and the Shadow was nowhere to be found. He laughs and says something, urging me to catch up though his legs are considerably longer than mine, and he crests a hill. When my younger self gives chase, I follow and soon stand at the top of the hill.

            Darkness immediately engulfs me. The wood before me spreads into the sickened mess that I’ve become accustomed to, and I see the tail end of my mother’s funeral. Before I can ever begin to connect with it, the vision lurches farther into the future through spiders, Dwarves, and the bloodbath on Ravenhill. I don’t stay there long before it shifts again.

            The forest floor is stained with a trail of blood that comes from the battered one that lies dying upon it. I see myself fly to the young man’s side, lay a hand on his forehead, smile only infinitesimally when his grey eyes grow wide with wonder in the midst of his pain. Legolas comes running from behind me and stops at my past self’s side, speaking in a low tone. I watch as we go back and forth; then, my voice breaks out hard as stone over the murmur:

_“I will not just leave him here to die!”_

Before I can go too far down that path, the vision shifts again.

Leaned back with his hands behind his head, Aradan weaves together another tale of the West as I tend to the terrible gash in his side. When he speaks of his “brothers,” his lopsided grin grows all the wider, and he recounts for me stories of chasing down Orc encampments, brigands, and wolf packs around the outskirts of a little town called Bree, the solemn beauty of Imladris, the bright green borders of the Shire—which he knows I particularly love hearing of—and even the glimmer of the distant Sea. He throws in a few quiet jokes and embellishments here and there, which either gain a laugh or an eye-roll from me. When our eyes meet and lock for the first time, the vision shifts yet again.

But this time it goes to something that I have never seen before.

A small settlement nestled in a young wood in a land unfamiliar to me spreads out before me. What looks to be a small number of my own people mingle with a few dark-headed Men, and it doesn’t take long before I see Legolas among them, standing next to a raven-haired man with a look of gentle wisdom in his eye. On the man’s arm is a woman with pale golden hair, her demeanor overflowing with quiet strength. A commotion draws their attention, and out of the throng a little boy comes running. His dark and tousled hair bounces out behind him with every step, his bright grey eyes shine, but his face confuses me. Too fair to be a child of Men, and yet not fair enough to be of my people. He cannons into a man with a sword on his back that waits for him with open arms.

_“Ada! Ada!”_

Laughing, the man sweeps the child up off the ground and kisses his cheek. It is then when I finally see the father’s face: a bit older and with a few more scars, but I know him immediately.

Aradan.

_Caladhiel!_    

            The distant voice calls me out from the visions. It repeats itself again and again, and I finally begin to recognize it when another voice speaks gently from behind me, one that I have not heard for many an age.

            “My daughter, why are you still here?”

            I turn around back towards the light. Now in front of me stands a tall Elf-woman dressed in flowing palest green, the waves of her white-golden hair gleaming over her shoulders, white gems set in silver sparkling on her brow. She only smiles when I see her.

            My mother.

            I begin to approach her, but she holds up a hand to stop me.

            “Come no closer, child,” she chides gently. “It is not yet time.”

            _Caladhiel!_

Confused, I turn back and forth between my mother and the voice that still calls to me.

            “It is your father, Caladhiel,” my mother says. “Go to him.”

            I hesitate.

            “Go!” she commands.

            Though much of me wishes to stay with my mother, she fades away before I can say anything to her. It seems the world is crumbling around me like ruins in an earthquake, but my father’s voice comes through clear as a pealing bell:

            _Caladhiel!_

__________________________________________________

The Spirit-realm shatters into a warm, red darkness. Dull pain throbs from my shoulder throughout my body, and I feel my hand clasped tight in another’s. My father’s voice comes again, soft, grieved, and imploring:

            “Caladhiel, awake!” he whispers.

            Another deep breath rolls into my chest, and my eyes flutter open.

            My father sits at my bedside, brow knit with worry and head bowed almost in a prayer. Though he begs me to return, he does not look at me. I shift around a little.

            _“Ada?”_ I groan.

            He turns to me quickly. “Thank the Valar!” he murmurs. “I thought you lost to us.”

            I only shake my head. “Where am I? What is the hour?”

            “You are home in the healers’ hall,” he replies. “It is just after midday. You’ve been asleep for nearly ten days.”

            I take the news with a quiet grunt as my senses begin to become more attuned. Pain immediately becomes sharper, and I wince and grit my teeth. Sending an orderly for Linneth, _Ada_ turns back to me and lays a soft hand on my hair without a word. Grief rests heavily in his eyes, and I get the feeling that even though I yet live, he blames himself for my pain and what very nearly could have been my death. Though I haven’t much strength, I return the hold he has on my hand as best I can. The corner of his mouth twitches in the closest thing I have seen to a smile since I was small, though his eyes are misty.

            “I saw _Naneth._ ”

            I am hardly aware the words are coming out of my mouth until I’ve spoken them. Even deeper sorrow washes over my father’s face, and his attention is locked onto me now, though he does not speak. I find the strength to continue.

            “She came to me from halls of white stone and silver glass.” My brow knits up again as another wave of pain comes over me. “I wished to go to her, but she said to me ‘it is not yet time.’ She…she could hear you calling me.”

            That rocks him to the core, and he bows his head for a moment in a vain effort to hide his face from me.

            A beat passes in silence; then, _Ada_ finally speaks.

            “She heard my voice…even in Mandos she knew me?”

            I give him a small smile. “She knew you before I did. She told me to return to you—” I give his hand a squeeze “—and I have.”

            A tear finally falls down _Ada’s_ cheek. He leans closer to me.

            “Forgive me, Caladhiel,” he whispers. “I beg you to forgive me.”

            I find the strength to smile, and slowly I begin to nod. Though he still looks stricken, some strange relief comes into his eyes, and he tightens his grip on my hand. Suddenly more memories of the conflict with Ashuruk come flooding into my head, and I bolt upright.

            “Aradan—”

            My father puts a hand to my chest and gently forces me back down, and a few orderlies come around the corner with Linneth.

            “He is alive,” _Ada_ says, “but he still sleeps.”

            I stir again. “Where is he? I must see him—”

            A dizzy spell cuts me off, and I flop back down on top of the pillows, moaning.

            “Lie still,” Linneth murmurs.

            I do as commanded, and I must fall asleep in the process, for when I come back to my senses it is Elhadron that stands over me. His form blocks something from my view, and when he whispers a few words in our tongue, the pain that surges in my shoulder fades away. I sigh.

            “Cousin?”

            He gives me a small smile. “Good, you are awake. How do you feel?”

            “Exhausted, but the cold is lifting.”

            He nods, then glances over his shoulder before a wide smile spreads across his face.

            “Let your fear lift away as well, Caladhiel,” he says. “The Valar have heard our cries!”

            My brow knits in confusion for a second, but when Elhadron moves to the side and clears my view to the other side of the room, my heart leaps.

            Face still a bit pale but eyes shining with a deep and steadfast light, Aradan lies on a bed of soft pillows. He gives me a lopsided smile as soon as I see him, and I sit up without dizziness this time. My entire face shines.

            “Aradan!”

            His smile grows at the sound of my voice. “Caladhiel? I thought you slain! But no…it seems our journey to Mandos has been delayed. How long have I slumbered?”

            “Ten days,” Elhadron says, coming over to him. “And news has come in that time that will lift your hearts from the Shadow all the more. The Enemy has suffered a great defeat on the fields of Pelennor, and the heir of Elendil has come forth to reclaim the throne of Gondor.”

            My eyes pop, and Aradan sighs and relaxes into his pillows.

            “At long last,” he says, a slow smile spreading across his young face. “At long last!”

            Elhadron smiles. “The Shadow has lifted from our borders as well,” he says. “The wood was cleansed when the Lady Galadriel threw down the walls of Dol Guldur, and it is called Mirkwood no longer. _Eryn Lasgalen_ we name it, for all that is green and good will endure within it until the ending of the world.”

            I lose my breath. “It…it is as it was when we were children?”

            Elhadron nods. “When you have recovered more of your strength, you will see it with your own eyes. But for now rest, and know that despair no longer has a foothold!”

            With that he leaves the room, leaving us to ponder all he has told us. Aradan and I exchange glances, and an unspoken question bounces back and forth between us:

            _Is this long reign of darkness finally coming to an end?_

My heart leaps at the prospect, though I have trouble believing it. Once my strength fully returns, I walk under the bright green canopy that has been restored to its former glory, bereft of burn scars or spider webs or poison. My bare feet sink into thick grass, and birds sing as they dart among the thickets. A small brook laughs nearby, and for what seems like the first time in ages, the Sun peeks golden through the thick canopy of trees. I breathe deeply; the air smells young and sweet, rid of the choking darkness it used to carry.

            And as the light warms my uplifted face, I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that the sickness that so long held my home in its grasp is gone.

            More footsteps jump into earshot, and my father and Aradan come slowly strolling around the corner, speaking together in low and amiable tones. _Ada_ quickens his pace when he sees me, and for the first time since my mother’s death, a real and genuine smile whispers across his countenance. Without a word he takes my face in his hands and kisses my forehead; then, he steps away into the wood, taking it all in in grateful, dumfounded silence.

            Smiling, Aradan steps up in front of me, taking both of my hands in his.

            “Tonight, our victory over the Shadow is to be celebrated,” he says. His lopsided smile grows to a face-splitting grin. “And tonight, you and I are to be wed.”

            Happy shock kicks a laugh out of me. “So soon?”

            He runs his thumbs over my knuckles. “What reason have we to wait?”

            I smile at my feet before looking straight into his eyes. “None.”

            He grins again before taking me into his arms and kissing me. My entire world comes to a screeching halt before it breaks, but though he still holds me in his arms, Aradan’s demeanor tenses with a question.

            “I knew,” he suddenly says.

            A bit confused, I look up at him and wait for him to go on.

            “From the moment the first words left your mouth that morning in the forest, I knew what lay behind Esgalion’s mask,” he continues.

            I only nod in response, and Aradan’s brow furrows.

            “When I found you that day…why did you not run from me?”

            It takes me a few moments to find the words. “I knew you were no simpleton,” I say. “But I also knew that I could not survive much longer in the wood alone. I was lost, starving, and wounded. I also knew that if I ran, you would undoubtedly give chase and catch me, as you did at the Lakeman’s inn.” I sigh. “No matter what I tried to tell myself, I was sick with loneliness. I missed my family. I missed _you._ ” My fingers delicately trace along his jawline. “Seeing you again gave me hope, but it also caused me sorrow, for I knew even then that you would likely suffer because of me. And when I thought you slain, I fled again, hoping to find death myself.”

            When the memories flood back to me, I drop my eyes from his face, but he lifts my chin on the crook of his finger.

            “Those hurts have long since healed,” he says. “Trouble yourself over them no longer, Caladhiel.” He stoops and kisses my brow.

            I smile, and I feel whatever heaviness is left in my heart fade away.

            Eventually we return to the halls, which bustle with happy activity instead of preparation for war for the first time since my mother’s death. Soon enough greenery of all kinds decorates the stone and sweet, haunting music floats through the warm caverns.

My fingers pluck harp instead of bowstring, my feet dance instead of fight, my voice rises in song instead of battle cry. Joy fills my heart instead of dread, and it overflows when the throng is silenced and Aradan and I stand before them all, hands joined. _Ada_ stands behind us, and his voice rings out jubilantly in our tongue:

“May Elbereth star-kindler hear Caladhiel and Aradan’s calls, and may Eru the Father of All bless them.”

Agreement and more well-wishes pour out at us from the crowd, and once they die down, Elhadron approach us, speaking in Sindarin:

“May Manwë Lord of Wind watch over Caladhiel and Aradan, and may Eru the Father of All bless them.”

Linneth comes behind him, smiling radiantly:

“May Yavanna Queen of the Earth smile upon Caladhiel and Aradan, and may Nienna Lady of Mercy strengthen them and embolden their hearts with hope.”

More blessings ring out from the throng. Aradan replaces my little silver ring with a band of gold, and I do the same for him. We then turn to face the crowd. Glowing white like a star fallen from the sky, golden hair shimmering over her shoulders, Lady Galadriel glides up beside us, laying hands on each of us. Her voice rings out as the morning tide:

“ _Nai Eru Ilúvatar alyuva tet!”_

The crowd echoes the blessing in Sindarin instead of Quenya, and they grow all the louder when Aradan pulls me down into a deep kiss. When it breaks, the Great Hall explodes into even more dancing and singing. A bard weaves our story into song, set to the same tune of the Lay of Beren and Lúthien. He embellishes some parts and leaves others out, and many a quiet laugh or knowing smile are passed back and forth between Aradan and I.

Celebrations continue, and the song, dance, and storytelling reach one of their loudest peaks before a messenger comes running in. Still dressed in leather armor, he fights to catch his breath, but his face glows with hope and a fierce joy is in his eyes. Just beholding his expression is enough to make the rest of us fall silent, and when we do, he calls out fervently:

“I bring word from Lord Legolas!”

_He yet lives; thank the Valar!_

Looks are exchanged across the room, and a quiet buzz fills the halls. Hardly able to contain himself, the messenger continues.

“The Armies of the West, united under Elendil’s banner, marched upon the Black Gate! The walls of Mordor were thrown down, and the Ring of Power was destroyed! The Dark Lord Sauron has been defeated!”

Shock initially overcomes us, but soon after the crowd erupts into cheers, joyful tears, and praises to Illúvatar. Friends and family embrace, some burst into song and laughter, others still ponder deeply and treasure the moment in their hearts. I all but tackle my father before leaping into Aradan’s open arms as he sweeps me up off my feet and spins me around. My heart pounds and I fight to catch my breath, but it is a wild joy that arouses me so instead of fear.

__________________________________________

Celebration still rings through the halls when Aradan and I finally slip away. My heart suddenly reminds me that our time together will be just as a blink in my lifetime, and a fatal sorrow will overcome me one day, lingering on in my spirit as I wait in the Halls of Mandos for the day that we will be together again.

But I force the thought from my mind and decide to spend those days as I spend this night: memorizing every scar and every smile, drinking in the tenderness, wisdom, and courage as they cradle my heart, and thanking Illúvatar for the beautiful gift He bestowed upon me with every breath as Aradan does the same.

And with the Enemy finally gone, I deem that the rest of my days will feel more like this, relishing in the hard-fought for peace at Aradan’s side.


	22. Family

** Twenty-Two **

_Family_

 

 

            I awake to the quiet sounds of peaceful morning. Pale sunlight warms my face, and the sweet song of a robin floats in on air fragrant with wildflowers. Stretching a bit, I sit up, placing my feet on the coolness of the stone floor. Next to me Aradan still seems to be asleep, so I rise as gently as possible and make my way over to a small table by the window.

            My mother’s old tome of tales—a small leather-bound book with a simple golden rune painted on the front—still sits there, still opened to the pages on Menelvagor. I take it into my hands and trace my fingers over the runes delicately, a soft smile sitting on my lips.

            I hear a stirring behind me, and a pair of strong arms suddenly wraps around me and pulls me close. A few kisses land on my neck and the side of my face, and my little smile turns to a grin so big it wrinkles my nose.

            There are many things from yesterday that I still struggle to believe; the fact that Aradan and I are actually wed is one of them. I don’t realize I’ve said as much until Aradan replies:

            “Neither can I believe it. And yet here we are.”

            I turn and slip my arms around his neck. “Hard fought for and hard won.”

            He only nods. “Aye.” His fingers trace over the still-visible wound on my shoulder, the place where Ashuruk’s blade struck true. “Hard fought indeed.”

            Grief creeps into his eyes the more he focuses on the mark. I bring a hand to his face, and when his eyes meet mine I kiss him tenderly. When it breaks, I whisper:

            “How does it feel to wake on the first day of a world made free?”

            He smiles. “Wonderful.”

            “And yet something still troubles you.”

            The melancholy in his eyes increases, and he turns to the window looking to the West.

            “Sauron is defeated, your people are saved, and we will begin to build our lives anew. But still I fear for my brethren in the West. Undoubtedly they came to their chieftain and king when he called, but I know not how well they endured the perils they faced.” He sighs. “I would go to Gondor to learn their fates and to see the fruits of our labor as Lord Aragorn ascends to the throne.”

            I lay a quiet hand on his arm. “I will go with you.”

            He turns to me, and I smile.

            “I have always wished to see the White City. And you are not the only one to have kin in the West.”

            Aradan smiles. “We will leave as soon as we are able. That is, if your father thinks you can be spared.”

            “I’m no longer bound to him, remember?”

            I run my hand down his jaw, and he softly smiles at his feet before meeting my gaze.

            “I suppose not.”

            “Then we leave as soon as we are able,” I say.  

            He smiles and kisses my brow, and once we have readied ourselves and joined my father and his court, we announce our intentions. Castien and his men quickly see to preparations, and soon enough they, along with Saeldur’s men, form an escort that waits to see us to Gondor. Just before we leave, my father approaches me, an intricately carven coffer in his hands.

            “I regret that I did not think to give these to you sooner, my daughter,” he says, “but now that I need no longer guard them, I bestow this gift upon you now.”

            Gingerly I take the coffer in my hands. When I open it and behold the contents, gems that shine like starlight, my jaw goes slack.

            “ _Ada…_ ”

            “The White Gems of Lasgalen,” he says, the whispers of a sorrowful smile on his face. “Your deeds and valor are more than worthy of them. They belonged to your mother, though they never graced her brow. She would have been very proud of you.” He steps forward and lays a quiet hand on my arm. “As am I.”

            A smile replaces my gape, and I give the coffer to a waiting aide and throw my arms around my father’s neck. After a small hesitation, _Ada_ returns the embrace, pulling me a little closer before releasing me.

            “Bear them well, Caladhiel,” he says. “I know you will.”

            I smile again before mounting my horse. Aradan rides up beside me.

            “The Road is ahead, and all is ready. If the way remains clear, we should arrive in little more than a month.”

            _Ada_ merely nods. “Make haste,” he replies, “and send the regards of the Woodland Realm to your kin.”

            “I shall,” Aradan replies.

            With that King Thranduil bids us farewell, and for the first time in my life, I ride unhindered for the kingdoms of Men.

____________________

            Our path out of Eryn Lasgalen takes us down the Anduin, through fair Lothlórien, across the rolling fields of Rohan, and finally into the noble cities of Gondor. All bear the scars and open wounds of war: charred fields, ruined villages and cities, bewildered people rummaging through piles of ash, children crying for fathers that will never return, for mothers that will never wake. My heart aches for them, and the closer we come to Minas Tirith, the clearer the path of destruction becomes.

            Though Sauron himself is gone, I begin to realize that the lands he ravaged will take time to heal, and some of their hurts never may. But already green grass grows where Orcish feet once trod, and wildflowers blossom where blood once ran.

            And now on the horizon I see a bright spike of silver, and when we finally crest the top of the hill, Minas Tirith lies before us, still gleaming ever strong in spite of her wounds from flame and catapult. The fields of Pelennor sprawl out in front of it, and though the carnage has been cleared, the grass is still charred in places, whispers of the conflict that raged here not weeks before.

We ride past the black wall into the first level of the city where a mighty gate once stood, and slowly we make our way through the city, which, in spite of its scars, still booms. Soldiers of both Gondor and Rohan still patrol the streets, but markets bustle, women chat, and children play. Some stop and look towards our procession with wonder; others pay us no mind. Some of the Rohirrim even seem a bit wary as we pass by, but the closer we come to the upper level, the more relaxed they become.

All the while Aradan and I search the throngs for familiar faces. It seems to be in vain before a voice jumps into earshot:

“Were only there more gardens, and birds singing in mighty trees, as I have said before. But a time is fast approaching where that will be reality.”

“Alongside the stone-works of Erebor!” another, heartier voice replies. “Between your people and mine, Master Elf, we may yet be able to help restore this city to beyond her former glory!”

I leap from my horse and run towards the sound, ignoring Aradan’s call from behind me. I round a corner, and there stands my brother. His back is to me, and he speaks to one hidden just behind the wall he leans on. They continue back and forth, jesting with each other as they go. Legolas laughs merrily, and he does not notice my approach at all until I come up directly behind him and lay a hand on his shoulder. He continues to speak as he turns around, but when he sees me the words drop off of his tongue. Confusion takes him over at first, but it is soon replaced with a fierce joy.

“Caladhiel!”

Eyes shining, I just laugh. “ _Mae govannen, muindor!”_

The sentence has hardly left my lips before I am caught up in a bone-crushing embrace.

“How are you here?”

I only laugh again.

“It does my heart such good to see you alive!” he says. He sighs and continues on in hurried Sindarin as he holds me at arm’s length. “I feared the worst at your disappearance, sister, and I rued that I could not join the search for you myself. But I had matters larger than myself to attend to, and now here you stand in Minas Tirith of all places, dressed as a queen with the Gems of Lasgalen on your brow! I ask again: how came you here?”

I quickly recount for him the transformation of Mirkwood to Eryn Lasgalen, of our father’s victory under the trees, and his joy grows all the more. Before I can continue, the same hearty voice pipes up from behind the wall:

“And just when will you introduce me to the lady to which you speak, Legolas?”

Laughing and rolling his eyes good-naturedly, Legolas slips an arm around my shoulders. “Quite right, Master Dwarf, quite right.”

My jaw drops. “Dwarf?”

Legolas smiles. “And no truer companion could you hope to find!”

Legolas guides me to the other side of the wall. Before me stands a mail-clad Dwarf with a thick red beard flowing over his chest. He smiles and straightens when he sees me.

“Gimli, son of Glóin, at your service! Now tell me, who is this fair lady to which I speak?”

“This, Gimli, is my sister, the Lady Caladhiel of Eryn Lasgalen,” Legolas says.

“So she returned home safe and sound after all, as I told you she would!” Gimli replies. “It seems time has taken the lass you spoke of and replaced her with a great Lady of the Woodelves!”

Legolas pulls me closer to him. “Indeed it has.”

“Now ‘how’ she returned becomes the question!”

“My safe return, Master Dwarf, I owe to my husband,” I say.

Legolas raises his eyebrows. “So you did wed Lord Sereg after all.”

“Lord Sereg is dead. I wed another.”

Legolas’s brow furrows. “Who, then?”

His answer rounds the corner, looking a little flustered and out of breath, but a huge, lopsided grin stretches across his face when he sees me.

“There you are!” Aradan says. His face lights up all the more when he sees Legolas. “And it seems you found that which you sought! _Mae govannen, hir vuin, mellon nín!_ ”

“Aradan!” Legolas exclaims, greeting him as a brother. “Yet another face my heart is glad to see!” His brow furrows, and mischief leaps into his eye. “You look spent, Dúnadan _._ What evil gave you chase? An angry fishwife?”

Aradan laughs. “No, _mellon._ But my wife sped from our company upon hearing her brother’s voice, and she is fleet of foot!”

Legolas and Gimli both gape. _“Wife!”_

I laugh musically and slip an arm around Aradan’s waist as he pulls me to him. “Yes, Legolas. I married Aradan.”

“Durin’s beard, lad, how did you do it?”

“Yes, what did you give King Thranduil as recompense? A piece of your very soul?”

The spark of wit ignites a grin on Aradan’s face. “No, my friend. I found a Silmaril in the cellars.”

Legolas laughs. “Indeed! And you escaped the ordeal with both hands intact? Well done!”

We all laugh; then, Aradan grows more somber.

“In truth, the brideprice was the head of Ashuruk of Gundabad.”

As he continues to recount the story, from the finding of Esgalion to the battle under the trees to the storming of Dol Guldur, his grip on me tightens, and I snuggle into his side. Legolas softly smiles.

“It seems a tale more akin to the legends of old,” he says.

“As do some of our own, friend Elf, do not forget that!” Gimli adds with a chuckle. “Nevertheless, you are a brave man and true, as is your valiant wife, and I am glad to count you both among my acquaintance.”

Smiling, Aradan thanks the Dwarf and shakes his hand.

“It gladdens my heart that you have found each other,” Legolas says, “and hearing of the success of your errand will please King Elessar greatly.”

Aradan’s face lights up. “Where is he?”

“In the courtyard with his kin and others of our friends,” Legolas replies.

“So they survived this ordeal after all!” Aradan says.

Legolas’s face darkens. “Many of them are slain,” he says, “but their stories are not mine to tell. Come, we will take you to them.”

With that we journey to the highest levels. Gimli and Legolas recount tales of their adventures for us, some with laughter and wonder, some with stern remembrance and sorrow. We pass by the Houses of Healing, where Men of Gondor and Rohan alike still mingle, some soldiers, some healers. A Gondorian knight sits watching us, his head bound and his arm in a sling, and a Rider goes stubbornly by on a crutch, a tall and noble woman dressed in the healers’ raiment by his side.

Finally we enter the courtyard. Legolas immediately introduces me to his friends: the Prince of Dol Amroth, the Steward of Gondor, the Witch-king’s bane, the young and stern king of Rohan, and, to my delight, four Halflings, including the Ringbearer himself. I find myself locked in lively conversation with new friends and old alike, broken only when a strong, deep, and noble voice calls out over the throng:

“Aradan! Little brother!”

Aradan turns towards the sound, smiling wide.

“Randir! You are alive! Thank the Valar!”

Laughing, the two embrace. A few more of their kin flood around Aradan, clapping him on the back and embracing him. Though I do not follow immediately, I can hear their conversation from where I stand beside Mithrandir.

            Aradan looks around. “It is true. There are so few of you left.” He swallows hard. “What happened to the others?”

            Randir’s smile fades a bit, and the others around him fall silent.

            “Arodir we lost passing through Rohan. He went missing in the ruins of Snowbourn, and we have heard or seen naught of him since. Halbarad and Dagor both fell on the fields of Pelennor; Halbarad to Gothmog and Dagor to the Witch-king of Angmar. Others still fell at the Black Gate, including Ehredir’s brothers. Baindir also was wounded there, but he recovers in the Houses of Healing. It will do him good to see you, little brother, and Orodben as well. Is he here?”

            Aradan sighs hard. “He was slain in the forest when we were beset by goblins.”

            Randir’s face falls. “Though it grieves me to hear this, it surprises me not. Mirkwood is not a kind place, and we did not dare to hope that either of you would escape it.” He sighs. “The Men of the West have paid a heavy price, our people particularly, but we set out to throw down the Enemy and restore Gondor and Arnor to their former glory, and that we have done! I also know you have faced great perils of your own, and yet here you stand!” He shakes his head. “Tell me, little brother, what gave you the courage to withstand so dark a place alone?”

            “No lust for death or glory,” Aradan replies after a silence. “Only the love of that which I fought to keep and defend. And I was hardly alone.”

            Randir smiles fondly. “Then this war has not tainted your heart in the least,” he says, clapping Aradan on the shoulder. “And yet you are changed. Lordlier you seem, bolder, though the quiet strength of your spirit is not diminished.”

            Aradan grins. “I have my wife to thank for that.”

            The Dunédain around him explode into excitement, and Randir’s jaw drops.

“Your _what?_ ”

Aradan merely laughs.

“Who is she? Where is she? Is she here?” they ask him.

Aradan laughs again. “Yes, she is here.”

            “So you had time to aid the Woodland Realm _and_ to woo this mysterious woman!” Randir grins. “You continue to astound, little brother. Where does she hail from, Dale?”

            “She is not of Dale, nor is she of the Lake or numbered among the Woodmen,” Aradan replies. “If Mithrandir can spare her, I will introduce you.”

            I take that as my cue to approach. Confusion furrows Randir’s brow.

            “I do not see her. I see only the fair daughter of King Thranduil.”

            Aradan grins. “As unbelievable as it may seem, Randir, it is she of whom I speak.”

            Randir’s eyes bug, and his jaw falls open again. “You jest.”

            “No, good Ranger,” I say, sliding a hand up Aradan’s arm and onto his shoulder as I smile up at him. “He does not.”

            It takes Randir a moment to overcome his shock, but a smile soon stretches across his face.

            “Then we greet you, noble lady, as both a princess and a sister,” he says, taking my hand and quickly kissing it. “Welcome to Minas Tirith.”

            “Thank you,” I reply. “It does me good to finally meet the brothers Aradan speaks so highly of.”

            “And we are glad to see him, and to hear of his deeds and yours alike,” a quiet and lordly voice says from behind us.

            The Dúnedain around us all bow deeply, and when we turn to find King Elessar and Queen Undómiel standing behind us we do the same.

            “My lord Aragorn,” Aradan says.

Stepping forward, the king lays a hand on Aradan’s shoulder, and Aradan looks up to find him smiling down upon him.

            “Well done,” he whispers.

            “Thank you, my king,” Aradan replies.

            King Elessar then turns to me, and he offers me a hand as I rise.

            “Lady Caladhiel,” he says, “ _mae govannen._ It does me good to see you again, and in happier spirits.”

            “The honor is mine, my lord,” I reply.

            We then greet Queen Undómiel. She looks back and forth between Aradan and I, smiling warmly and knowingly, before saying to all:

            “Come inside. Together we feast, remember those that gave their blood, and share the joy of living in the days of peace!”

            She then turns and motions towards Merethrond, the Great Hall of Feasting. Aradan slips his hand in mine, interlocking our fingers, and kisses my forehead. We enter, and I smile.  


End file.
